CHAPTER XV.

One July morning Mr Forsyth was working in the field beside the river

when he saw a canoe shoot in sight. It drew up to the bank and its

occupant walked towards him.

“Man, it is you!” he exclaimed, grasping the extended hand. “At the

first look I didna ken you. Hoo ye hae changed since last I saw you.”

“I know I have,” answered Morton, “the months since we parted have

aged me more than half as many years would in ordinary course of

life. The hardships of war, the strife between life and death on the

battle-field, develop fast what is good or bad in a man.”

“Ye’ll hae had your share o’ the fechtin?”

“Yes; our regiment took part in all the movements in the Niagara

district, and during the campaigning season there was not a week we did

not exchange shots with the enemy or have to endure a toilsome march to

check his plans.”

“And were you hurt at a’?”

“Nothing to speak of; scratches that did not keep me off duty over a

few days. I may be thankful to have got off so well, for many a pretty

fellow will never see home again.”

“War’s a gruesome trade.”

“It is that: I have seen scenes of horror that I try to banish from my

memory. The carnage at Lundy’s Lane was sickening, and the cries of the

wounded for help heart-breaking, for, from the darkness and the enemy’s

pressing us, we could not reach them.”

“That brither should butcher brither is awfu’ proof o’ total depravity.

After a’, thae Yankees, though their ways are not oor ways, are flesh

o’ oor flesh, an’ we should live aside are anither in peace.”

“In this war, at least, Mr Forsyth, they are to blame. They declared

it and if ever war is justifiable it is surely one like that we have

fought and won, where a people rise to defend their native land against

the invader.”

“I dinna dispute you, but as I creep near to my end, my heart softens

to my fellow-men o’ a’ creeds and races and I wish to see peace and

good-fellowship the warld ower.”

“So do I, but sure and permanent peace is not to be won by surrender of

right. It is better for all that the best blood of Canada and Britain

has soaked the fields within the sound of the roar of Niagara, than

that Canada should have become a conquered addition to the United

States.”

“You’re richt in that: the sacrifice is sair, but trial bitter, but a

country’s independence maun be maintained. Canadians will think mair o’

their country when they see what it has cost to defend it. Noo that the

war is ended, you’ll be leaving Canada?”

“That depends on what your daughter says. My regiment sails from Quebec

by the end of the month.”

“What mean ye, sir, by Maggie hae’in’ aucht to dae wi’ your going?”

“Simply this, that if she will take me as her husband and you will give

your consent, I shall sell my commission and remain in Canada.”

“You are surely no in earnest? What has the dochter o’ a backwoods

farmer t’ dae wi’ an officer?”

“Since I landed in Canada I have had many false notions rudely torn

away, and one of them is, that there is any connection between worth

and station in life. I have found more to admire in the shanty than I

ever did in the parlors of the Old Country.”

“That’s repeatin’ what Rabbie Burns wrote, the rank is but the guinea

stamp.”

“I have proved it true: for the first time in my life I have become

intimate with those whose living depends upon the labor of their hands,

and my Old World notions have melted away, when I found them better

than those whose boast it is they never soiled their fingers with

manual toil.”

“Aye, aye; nae guid comes o’ tryin’ to escape the first command to

fallen man, ‘in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread.’”

“What say you?” asked Morton.

“To your asking Maggie? Oh, dinna speak o’t. She’s my ae ewe lamb and I

canna pairt wi’ her.”

“I do not mean you should; we would go to Upper Canada together.”

The old man paused and leant upon his hoe and Morton stood respectfully

behind him. After long silence he raised his head. “I canna answer you.

It’s no for me to put my ain selfish will against her good; gang and

let her choose for hersel’.”

“Thank you,” said Morton with emotion.

“We have had a backward spring; frost every week a maist to the middle

o’ June, an’ sic cauld winds since syne that naething grows. We hae

sown in hope, but I’m fearfu’ there will be little to reap. Sic a

spring the auldest settler canna mind o’. Look at thae tatties! What

poor spindly things they are, an’ this the first week o’ July.”

“It has not been so bad in the west.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Weel, this being the first real warm day we’ve

had, I tell’t Maggie to busk hersel’ and gang and veesit the neebors,

for she’s been in a sad and sorrowfu’ way since her mither deed. She

said she had nae heart to veesit, but wad tak a walk alang the river

and be back to mak my denner. Her brithers we expect hame every day

from takin’ rafts to Montreal.”

“I’ll go and seek her,” remarked Morton, as he turned, and the old man

went on hoeing. Morton had gone about a mile, when his eye caught the

flutter of the linen kerchief Maggie had pinned round her neck. She did

not see him and as she sauntered before him, he marked her graceful

carriage, and muttered to himself, “A woman worthy to woo and win.”

Unwilling to startle her by going too near, he cried “Miss Forsyth.”

She paused, turned in astonishment, and as her color came and went

said, “Is it you?”

“Yes, and surely you will not shrink from me as you did when last we

met.”

She held out her hand and as he pressed it, simply said, “I’m glad

you’re safe and well.”

“Have you no warmer greeting for me?”

“What warmer do you deserve?”

“My deservings are nothing, but your own kind heart might plead for me.”

“Oh, dear: the conceit of some men, who think they can pick up hearts

on the banks of the Chateaugay as they would acorns.”

“And what of women who pitch back rings as if they stung them?”

Maggie laughed and replied, “The gift is measured with the giver.”

“When a gift is a token of the hour of peril, what then, my lady? Is it

a thing to be scorned?”

“Something to be restored to the sender when he gets out of the trap,

that he may bestow it on somebody else.”

“I swear I never cared for anybody else.”

“Who asked you? If you must needs confess, you should have visited the

fathers at the Basin on your way here.”

“I’m Puritan enough to desire to confess direct to the one I have

offended.”

“So you have offended me!”

“You know I care for you.”

“How should I? From your many messages these last twenty months?”

Morton felt vexed and Maggie observed and enjoyed his perplexity.

“Come,” she said, “it is wearing on to dinner-time and I know what

soldiers’ appetites are. We had some soldier visitors who left us

nothing. We will go home.”

“Not until I have said what I want to tell you,” he said warmly.

“Oh, you have something to tell me! You must have. Soldiers and hunters

have always long stories to tell about themselves. Keep them until you

have had some of our backwoods fare.”

“Tease me no more, Maggie; my heart is yours whether you accept it or

not. That I have been neglectful and ungrateful I confess. How much I

owe you I did not know until some months after I saw you.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You owe it to Hemlock; not to me.”

“I know all, brave heart. I met Mrs Scott at Kingston and she told me

of your journey to Oka, but for which Hemlock would never have known of

my peril. As she spoke, the smouldering love I had for you burst into

flame and your image has never been absent from my mind an hour since.

When my comrades caroused and spoke loosely, I thought of you and

turned away and tried to live worthily of you.”

“You know how to praise yourself.”

“No, no, my Maggie: I speak it not in praise of myself but in proof of

my devotion, for how can a man show his love for a woman better than by

forcing himself to live as he knows she would wish him to do?”

“And if you so loved this somebody of yours, why did you not write her?”

“You forget a soldier’s life is uncertain; I knew not the hour when I

might fall. I said to myself a thousand times, if my life is spared I

will seek her I love and plead my cause. When the bugle sounded the

call to prepare for action I never failed to breathe an ardent prayer

that Heaven’s blessing might rest upon you. I have been spared, the

supreme hour in my life has come, and I await your answer.”

Maggie stood still. Her eyes fell to the ground and her fingers

unconsciously plucked to pieces the flowers they held.

“Will you not speak?” pleaded Morton.

In a low voice she replied, “I cannot marry.”

“Why?”

“I will never leave my father.”

“I do not ask you should. I value his honest worth, and he shall be my

father too, for I never saw my own, he died when I was a child. Say you

will make me the happiest man on the Chateaugay and we will never part.”

“I say it is time to go and get dinner ready. Father, poor man, will be

starving. Mr Morton, did you ever hoe potatoes for a forenoon?”

“Nonsense; speak the word and end my anxiety.”

“Oh, I’m not anxious. If you had hoed for half a day you would know

what hunger was.”

“My hunger today is of another sort.”

“Ah, well, boys ought to learn to restrain their appetites.”

“Play with me no more. Let me know my fate. Give me my answer.”

“Won’t it be time enough when the minister asks?”

* * * * *

It was not much of a dinner that Maggie cooked, for she boiled the

potatoes without salt and fried the pork to a crisp. It did not much

matter, however, for of the three the father was the only one who had

an appetite, and he did not complain. When done, he left to resume

his task, and the young couple were alone. At supper he was told all,

when he quietly rose, gripped Morton by the hand and said nothing.

Next day the two sons arrived, and, on learning the news, by way

of congratulation, slapped Maggie on the back until she declared it

was sore. There were long discussions over Morton’s plans. He told

them he had obtained promotion after Lundy’s Lane, and as captain

his commission was worth a good deal; he would sell it, and then, as

a retired officer, he would be entitled to a grant of land in Upper

Canada. He proposed they should all leave and go with him. To this

father and sons were much inclined, for the fact that the place they

occupied was subject to seigniorial rent they did not like. It was

arranged Morton should go to Quebec and sell his commission and by the

time he returned they would be ready to join him.

Four days after he had left, Maggie received a letter from him,

enclosing one from Mrs Scott. He said he found that Colonel Scott had

arrived in Montreal, and, after winding up some ordnance business

there, meant to sail for England with the Fall fleet. Mrs Scott sent a

pressing invitation to Maggie to come and stay with her until Morton

returned from Quebec. Maggie went, expecting to stay ten days or so,

but her visit lengthened out to the end of August. They were happy

weeks, spent in enjoyable society and in the delightful task of the

preparation that is the prelude to a happy marriage. Morton at last

got back, and had not merely the money obtained for his commission,

but a patent for a large tract of land on the shore of Lake Ontario,

obtained by him in a personal interview with Sir George Prevost, the

gallant Gordon Drummond, his old commander, accompanying him and

pressing his claim to generous recognition. Leaving Maggie in Montreal,

he went again to the Chateaugay to tell all was ready. While there,

he took a run up to Four Corners, his business being to visit the

poor widow whose only son had been slain in the skirmish that led

to his imprisonment. He found her and not only made sure she would

be cared for but instituted steps to secure a pension, for congress

was considering the question of relief to those who had suffered by

the war. During his stay at Four Corners, he lived with Mr Douglass,

and repaid with earnest gratitude the advances he had made him while

living in misery in the stable, which sad abode he looked into with a

swelling heart. On the morning after his return, they were ready to

embark in the three canoes that were in waiting to convey them and

their belongings, when the old man was missed. Morton, guessing where

he was, went to seek him, and found him kneeling by the grave of his

wife. Reverently approaching, he whispered the boatmen were anxious to

start, assisted him to rise, and, leaning heavily on his arm, led him

to the canoe where he was to sit. One last look at the shanty his hands

had built and the fields they had cleared, and a bend in the river

shut them out from his sight forever. Resuming his wonted contented

cheerfulness, he adapted himself to the change, and rose still higher

in Morton’s esteem. When they reached the Basin, the wind was favorable

for the bateau that was waiting to leave on her trip to Lachine, and

there they arrived late in the evening. The following morning Morton

left for Montreal with Mr Forsyth, the sons remaining to stow away

the outfit in the bateau, which done, they also journeyed to the same

place. That evening there was a quiet little party at Colonel Scott’s

quarters, and next morning a larger assemblage, for every officer off

duty in the town was present, to see the army chaplain unite the happy

pair. When all was over and Maggie had gone to prepare for the journey,

Morton received congratulations that he knew were sincere. “Why,” said

Major Fitzjames, “she is fit to be a Duchess.”

“She is fit for a more difficult position,” interjected Colonel Scott,

“she has a mother-wit that stands her well alike in the circles of

polished society and in the hour of danger and hardship.”

“Who is this that is such a paragon?” asked Mrs Scott, who had just

come in.

“Mrs Morton.”

“Oh, say she is a true woman, and you say all. Mr Morton you have got a

treasure.”

“I know it,” he replied, “and I will try to be worthy of her. She will

be the benediction of the life I owe her.”

The day was fine and, for a wonder, the road was good, so that a

large party, many of them on horseback, escorted the newly married

pair to Lachine. As they drove past King’s Posts Morton recalled his

first visit to it, the spy, and all the painful complications that had

ensued, and now so happily ended. As they stood on the narrow deck of

the bateau, and the wind, filling the huge sail, bore them away, a

cheer rose, led by Colonel Scott. It was answered from the receding

boat, and Maggie waved her handkerchief.

The journey was tedious and toilsome, but when they sailed into the

bay on which Morton’s land was situated, saw its quality and fine

situation, they felt they had been rewarded for coming so far. That

Maggie proved an admirable help-mate need hardly be told, but what

was remarkable is, that Morton became a successful farmer. Willing to

put his hand to whatever there was to do, under his father-in-law’s

tuition, he quickly became proficient, and when there was work to be

done he did not say to his helpers “Go” but “Come,” and set them an

example of cheerful and persevering exertion. Having land and enough

to spare, he induced a good class of immigrants to buy from him, so

that, before twenty years, his settlement was known as one of the most

prosperous on Lake Ontario. Influential and public-spirited, Morton, as

his circumstances grew easy and did not exact the same close attention

to his personal affairs, took a leading part in laying the commercial

and political foundations of Upper Canada, and Maggie was widely known

in its best society. That they were a happy couple everybody knew,

and their descendants are among the most prominent subjects of the

Dominion.

ARCHANGE AND MARIE.

I.--THEIR DISAPPEARANCE.

During the revolutionary war a number of Acadians left the New

England States for Canada, preferring monarchic to republican rule.

The British authorities provided for these twice-exiled refugees

with liberality, giving them free grants of lands and the necessary

tools and implements, also supplying them from the nearest military

posts with provisions for three years, by which time they would be

self-sustaining. Some half dozen families asked for and received lots

in the county of Huntingdon and settled together on the shore of the

St Lawrence. Accustomed to boating and lumbering in their old Acadian

homes, they found profitable exercise in both pursuits in their new,

and after making small clearances left their cultivation to the women,

while they floated rafts to Montreal or manned the bateaux which

carried on the traffic between that place and Upper Canada. The shanty

of one of these Acadians, that of Joseph Caza, occupied a point that

ran into the great river near the mouth of the LaGuerre.

It was a sunny afternoon towards the end of September and the lake-like

expanse of the river, an unruffled sheet of glassy blue, was set in a

frame of forest already showing the rich dyes of autumn. It was a scene

of intense solitude, for, save the clearance of the hardy settler, no

indication of human life met the gaze. There was the lonely stretch

of water and the all-embracing forest, and that was all. Playing

around the shanty were two sisters, whose gleeful shouts evoked solemn

echoes from the depths of the forest, for they were engaged in a game

of hide-and-seek amid the rows of tall corn, fast ripening in the

sunshine. They were alone, for their father and brothers were away

boating and their mother had gone to the beaver-meadow where the cows

pastured. Breathless with their play the children sat down to rest, the

head of the younger falling naturally into the lap of the older.

“Archange, I know something you don’t.”

“What is it?”

“What we are to have for supper. Mother whispered it to me when she

went to milk. Guess?”

“Oh, tell me; I won’t guess.”

“Wheat flour pancakes. I wish she would come; I’m hungry.”

“Let us go and meet her.”

The children skipped along the footpath that led through the forest

from the clearance to the pasture and had gone a considerable distance

before their mother came in sight, bearing a pail.

“Come to meet your mother, my doves! Ah, I have been long. The calves

have broken the fence and I looked for them but did not find them.

Archange, you will have to go or they may be lost. Marie, my love, you

will come home with me.”

“No, mother, do let me go with sister.”

“No, you will get tired; take my hand. Remember the pancakes.”

“I won’t be tired; I want to go with Archange.”

“Ah, well; the calves may not have strayed far; you may go. But haste,

Archange, and find them, for the sun will soon set.”

The children danced onwards and the mother listened with a smile to

their shouts and chatter until the sounds were lost in the distance.

On entering the house she stirred up the fire and set about preparing

supper.

The sun set, leaving a trail of golden glory on the water, and she was

still alone. The day’s work was done and the simple meal was ready.

The mother walked to the end of the clearance and gazed and listened;

neither sight nor sound rewarded her. She shouted their names at the

highest pitch of her voice. There was no response, save that a heron,

scared from its roost, flapped its great wings above her head and

sailed over the darkening waters for a quieter place of refuge.

“It is impossible anything can have befallen them,” she said to

herself; “the calves could not have gone far and the path is plain.

No, they must be safe, and I am foolish to be the least anxious. Holy

mother, shield them from evil!”

Returning to the house, she threw a fresh log on the fire, and placing

the food where it would keep warm she closed the door, casting one

disconsolate look across the dark water at the western sky, from

which the faintest glow had departed. Taking the path that led to

the pasture, she hastened with hurried step to seek her children.

She gained the pasture. The cows were quietly grazing; there was no

other sign of life. Her heart sank within her. She shouted, and her

cries pierced the dew-laden air. There was no response. She sank upon

her knees and her prayer, oft repeated, was, “Mother of pity, have

compassion on a mother’s sorrow and give me back my little ones!”

The thought suddenly seized her that the children had failed to find

the calves and, in returning, had not taken the path, but sought the

house by a nigh cut through the woods. She sprang to her feet and

hastened back. Alas! the door had not been opened, and everything was

as she left it.

“My God!” she cried in the bitterness of her disappointment, “I fear

me the wolf garou has met and devoured my children. What shall I do?

Marie, my pretty one, wilt thou not again nestle in thy mother’s bosom

nor press thy cheek to mine? Holy Virgin, thou who hadst a babe of

thine own, look on me with compassion and give back to me my innocent

lambs.”

Again she sought the pasture, and even ventured, at her peril, to

thread in the darkness the woods that surrounded it, shouting, in

a voice shrill with agony, the names of the missing ones, but no

answering sound came. Heedless of her garments wet with dew, of her

weariness, her need of food and sleep, she spent the night wandering

back and forth between house and pasture, hoping to find them at either

place, and always disappointed. The stars melted away one by one,

the twitter of the birds was heard, the tree-tops reddened, and the

sun again looked down upon her. She resumed the search with renewed

hope, for now she could see. With the native confidence of one born

in the bush she traversed the leafy aisles, but her search was in

vain. There was only a strip of bush to be examined, for a great swamp

bounded it on one side as the St Lawrence did on the other, and into

the swamp she deemed it impossible the children could have gone. She

was more convinced than before that a wild beast had killed them and

dragged their bodies to its lair in the swamp. Stunned by this awful

conjecture, to which all the circumstances pointed, her strength left

her, and in deep anguish of spirit she tottered homewards. On coming

in sight of the shanty she marked with surprise smoke rising from the

chimney. Her heart gave a great leap. “They have returned!” she said

joyfully. She hastened to the door. A glance brought back her sorrow.

She saw only her husband and her eldest son.

“What ails thee? Your face is white as Christmas snow. We came from

Coteau this morning and found nobody here. What is wrong?”

“Joseph,” she replied in a hollow voice, “the wolf garou hath devoured

our children.”

“Never! Thou art mad. There is no wolf garou.”

“I leave it all with the good God: I wish there was no wolf garou.”

Then she told him of the disappearance of the children and of her vain

search. Husband and son listened attentively.

“Pooh!” exclaimed Caza, “they are not lost forever to us. Get us

breakfast and Jean and I will track them and have them back to thee

before long. You do not know how to find and follow a trail.”

An hour later, shouldering their rifles, they set forth. The day

passed painfully for the poor mother, and it was long after sunset

when they returned. They had found no trace of the wanderers. They had

met the calves, which, from the mud that covered them, had evidently

been in the swamp and floundered there long before they got back to

solid land at a point distant from the pasture. The father’s idea was

that the children had been stolen by Indians. Next day the search

was resumed, the neighbors joining in it. At nightfall all returned

baffled, perplexed and disheartened; Caza more confident than before

that the Indians were to blame. After a night’s rest, he set off

early for St Regis, where he got no information. Leaving there, he

scoured the forest along Trout River and the Chateaugay, finding a few

hunting-camps, whose dusky inmates denied all knowledge of the missing

girls. He pursued his toilsome way to Caughnawaga and came back by

the river St Louis without discovering anything to throw light on the

fate of his children. The grief of the mother who had been buoying

herself with the expectation that he would bring back the truants, is

not to be described; and she declared it would be a satisfaction to

her to be assured of their death rather than longer endure the burden

of suspense. Again the father left to scour the wilderness that lies

between the St Lawrence and the foot-hills of the Adirondacks, hoping

to find in some wigwam buried in forest-depths the objects of his eager

quest. On reaching Lake Champlain he became convinced that the captors

were beyond his reach, and, footsore and broken-hearted, he sought his

home, to make the doleful report that he had not found the slightest

trace.

The leaves fluttered from the trees, the snow came in flurries from

the north, the nights grew longer and colder, and, at last, winter set

in. When the wind came howling across the icy plain into which the

St Lawrence had been transformed, and the trees around their shanty

groaned and wailed, the simple couple drew closer to the blazing logs

and thought sadly of their loved ones, pinched with cold and hunger, in

the far-away wigwams of their heartless captors.

“They will grow up heathens,” murmured the mother.

“Nay, they were baptized,” suggested the father, “and that saves their

souls. I hope they are dead rather than living to be abused by the

savages.”

“Say not that, my husband; they can never forget us, and will watch a

chance to come back. Archange will sit on thy knee again, and I will

once more clasp my Marie to my bosom.”

When bedtime came they knelt side by side, and in their devotions the

wanderers were not forgotten.

Time rolled on, and Caza and his wife became old people. Each year

added some frailty, until, at a good old age, the eyes of the mother

were closed without having seen what she longed for--the return of her

children. The husband tarried a while longer, and when he was laid

to rest the sad and strange trial of their lives grew fainter and

fainter in the memories of those who succeeded them, until it became a

tradition known to few--as a mystery that had never been solved.

II.--THEIR FATE.

Archange, holding Marie by the hand, on reaching the pasture, followed

the fence to find where the calves had broken out, and then traced

their footprints, which led to the edge of the swamp. Here she

hesitated. “Marie, you stay here until I come back.”

“No, no; I will go with you; I can jump the wet places, you know.”

“Yes, and get tired before you go far. Wait; I’ll not be long in

turning the calves back.”

Marie, however, would not part from her sister, and followed her steps

as she picked her way over the swamp; now walking a fallen tree and

anon leaping from one mossy tussock to another. The calves were soon

sighted, but the silly creatures, after the manner of their kind, half

in play and half in fright, waited until the children drew near, when

they tossed up their heels and ran. In vain Archange tried to head

them. Cumbered by Marie, who cried when she attempted to leave her,

she could not go fast enough, and when it became so dark that it was

difficult to see the sportive animals, she awakened to the fact that

she must desist.

“Marie, we will go home and leave the calves until morning.”

“But if we don’t get them they will have no supper.”

“Neither will you; let us haste home or we will not see to get out of

the swamp.”

“There is no hurry; I am tired,” and with these words Marie sat down

on a log, and, pouting at her sister’s remonstrances, waited until

the deepening gloom alarmed Archange, who, grasping the little hand,

began, as she supposed, to retrace the way they had come. Marie was

tired, and it now being dark, she slipped repeatedly into the water,

until, exhausted and fretful, she flung herself on the broad trunk of

a fallen hemlock and burst into tears. Archange was now dreadfully

alarmed at their situation, yet it was some time before she was able

to persuade her sister to resume their journey. They moved on with

difficulty, and, after a while, the sight of solid green bush rising

before them gladdened their strained eyes. “We have passed the swamp!”

joyfully exclaimed Archange. They reached the ridge and scrambled up

its side. The heart of the elder sister sank within her for she failed

to recognize, in the starlight, a single familiar landmark. Could it be

that, in the darkness, she had pursued the reverse way, and, instead of

going towards home, had wandered farther away and crossed an arm of the

swamp?

“Are we near home, Archange? I’m hungry.”

“My darling, I fear we will have to stay here until daylight. We’ve

lost our way.”

“No, no; mother is waiting for us and supper is ready; let us go.”

“I wish I knew where to go, but I don’t. We are lost, Marie.”

“Will we have no supper?”

“Not tonight, but a nice breakfast in the morning.”

“And sleep here?”

“Yes, I will clasp you and keep you warm.”

“I want my own bed, Archange,” and the child broke down and softly wept.

Finding a dry hemlock knoll, Archange plucked some cedar brush, and

lying down upon it, folded Marie in her arms, who, wearied and faint,

fell asleep. It was broad daylight when they awoke, chilled and hungry.

Comforting her sister as best she could, Archange descended to the

swamp, confident that they would soon be home. She had not gone far,

until she was bewildered. The treacherous morass retained no mark of

their footprints of the night before, and she knew not whither to

go. Long and painfully they struggled without meeting an indication

of home, and the fear grew in Archange’s breast that they were going

farther and farther away from it. Noon had passed when they struck

another long, narrow, stony ridge, which rose in the swamp like an

island. Gladly they made for it, and seeking an open space, where the

sunshine streamed through the interlacing foliage, enjoyed the heat, as

it dried their wet garments and soothed their wearied limbs.

“If we only had something to eat,” said Marie, wistfully.

“Oh, we will get plenty of nuts here. See, yonder is a butternut tree,”

and running; to it Archange returned with a lapful, which she broke

with a stone as Marie ate them. They satisfied her craving, and laying

her head on the sunny bank she fell asleep from fatigue. As soon as

her breathing showed that she was sleeping soundly her sister stole

from her side to explore the ridge and try to discover some trace of

the way home. She found everything strange, and the conviction settled

upon her mind that they were lost and that their sole hope of escape

was in the searching-party, which she knew must be out, finding them.

Little did she know that the morass their light steps had crossed would

not bear the weight of a man, and that they were hopelessly lost and

doomed to perish in the wilderness. Had she been alone she would have

broken down; the care of her sister sustained her. For her she would

bear up. On returning, she found her still asleep, and as she bent over

her tear-stained face and lightly kissed it, she murmured, “I will take

care of Marie and be her little mother.”

The thought of home and mother nigh overcame her. Repressing the rising

lump in her throat, she busied herself against her sister’s waking.

She increased her store of butternuts, adding beechnuts and acorns as

well and broke them and arranged the kernels on basswood leaves, as on

plates. She drew several big branches together and covered them with

boughs which she tore from the surrounding cedars, and when the bower

was complete she strewed its floor with dried ferns. She had finished

and was sitting beside Marie when the little eyes opened and were

greeted with a smile.

“Oh, I have been waiting ever so long for you, Marie. We are going to

have a party. I have built a bower and laid out such a nice supper. We

will play at keeping house.”

The child laughed gleefully on seeing the arrangements, and the forest

rang with their mirth as the hours sped on. When evening approached

Marie grew wistful; she wanted her mother; she wanted to go home, and

Archange soothed her with patient care.

“Look at the bower, Marie! See what a nice bed; won’t you lie down on

it? And what stories you will have to tell mother of our happy time

here!”

The child, charmed by the novelty, crept in, and laying down her curly

head fell asleep to the crooning of her sister. The stars as they hung

over the tree-tops gazed downwards in pity on the little girls clasped

in each others’ arms in the sleep of innocence, and the soft south

wind sighed as it swept by, sorrowing that it could not save them. A

murmuring was heard in the pine-tops.

“Must they perish?” asked the guardian angel.

“They must; no help can reach them,” answered Nature with a sigh.

“Unwittingly they have strayed from the fold into the wilderness, these

poor, helpless lambs, and must suffer. Only to man is given the power

to help in such extremity.”

“Can you do nothing?” pleaded the angel.

“Yes; I shall lighten their last hours, give them a speedy death, and

prevent the tooth of ravenous beast or crawling worm touching their

pure bodies. Think me not cruel. I cannot perform the acts allotted to

mankind, but am not, therefore, as some deem me, cruel and stolid; my

spirit is tender, and what is in my power I’ll do.”

Sad of countenance the angel turned and glided to the side of the

sleeping children. Stooping over them he whispered in their ears, and

they smiled in their sleep and dreamt of home, of dancing on their

father’s knee, of being tossed to the rafters by their brothers, and

they felt the touch of their mother’s hand and heard the sound of her

voice, and they were very happy.

* * * * *

When they awoke the song of a belated greybird, perched overhead,

greeted them, and they lay and listened and watched the movements of a

brilliantly colored woodpecker, as it circled the trunk of a spruce.

Looking into the face of her sister, Archange saw that it was pale and

pinched and that her smile was wan and feeble.

“Will father be here today?”

“I hope so, Marie; are you tired of me?”

“Oh, no; I do love you so, but I do want mother and--and--a drink of

warm milk and a piece of bread.”

“Well, perhaps you will get them soon, and we will be happy until they

come.”

They rose and Archange busied herself in setting forth breakfast, but

both, though very hungry, now loathed the sight of nuts. Wandering,

hand in hand, to find something more acceptable, they found in a

raspberry thicket a bush with a scant crop of second-growth berries.

Making a little basket of the bark of the white birch they nearly

filled it, and returning to their bower, sat down to enjoy them,

fashioning out of reeds make-believe spoons and asking each other if

they would have cream and sugar. The play went on and faint laughter

was heard. When the last berry was gone, the gnawing hunger re-awoke

and the feverish heat of tongue and palate, which the acid juice had

allayed, returned. Marie would not be comforted. She wanted to go

home; she wanted her mother; she wanted food, and burying her face

in her sister’s lap sobbed as if her heart would break and she would

not be comforted. Archange felt as if she must give way to despair,

but she repressed the feeling and bore up bravely. The trials and

responsibilities of the past thirty-six hours had aged her, and, child

as she was in years, she acted like a woman towards her sister, whom

she alternately soothed and tried to divert. While leaning over her, in

affected sportive mood, something soft brushed past her face and crept

between them. It was a grey squirrel. Marie opened her weeping eyes,

looked wonderingly for a moment, and then, with delighted gesture,

grasped the little creature, and beaming with joy, pressed it to her

lips.

“It is Mignon; my own clear little Mignon! What caused you to run away

from me, you naughty boy?”

It was a tame squirrel, Marie’s pet, which, a week before, had

scampered off to the woods. There was no doubt as to his identity, for

beside its evident recognition of Marie, it retained the collar of

colored yarn she had braided and tied round his neck. Hunger, home and

mother were forgotten in the delight of recovering her pet, for whom

she busied herself in getting breakfast, and he was soon sitting before

her gravely disposing of the nuts she handed him, one by one.

“Cannot Mignon guide us home?” she suddenly asked.

“Oh, yes; Mignon knows the way; but we would have to follow him over

the trees. I am afraid you could not jump from branch to branch; I know

I could not.”

“Oh, I will tie a string to him and make him walk before us,” and with

pretty prattle she entered into a conversation with the squirrel,

telling him how they were lost and he was to guide them home, for she

wanted to take dinner with mother. Mignon gravely listened and nodded

his head as if he understood it all. Then he ran up a tree or two by

way of exercise, frisked with another squirrel, peeped at Marie from

all sorts of unexpected places, and ended his capers by jumping on

to her shoulder when she was not expecting him, and pretended he was

going to nibble her chin. Marie was delighted; Mignon had diverted

her mind from her sufferings and Archange assisted by suggesting they

should make a little house for him. Of sticks and reeds they framed it

and plucking from the swamp lapfuls of ripe cat-tails they lined it

with them, making a nest soft as velvet. This done, they had to fill

a larder for him, and had a great hunting for all manner of nuts, and

in this part of their work Mignon took great interest and pretended to

assist, tho’, despite all warnings from Marie, he persisted in clasping

in his forepaws the biggest butternuts and running away to bury them in

out-of-the-way places. When she became tired with her exertions, Marie

took a nap and Mignon curled himself up on her breast and snoozed with

one eye open.

Weak in strength and sick from hunger, Archange, no longer requiring

to keep up appearances, flung herself down near by and wept bitterly.

Why did not father come? Were they to die there alone and from want of

food? Should she not try again to find the way home? She stood up, as

if to consider which way to try, when her head grew dizzy and she sank

down and knew no more until she was aroused by Marie climbing over her

and kissing her. She knew by the sun that it was late in the day, and

rising, the sisters walked slowly and unsteadily seeking berries. They

found a few only and they again tried to eat nuts. They could not.

Tracing the edge of the swamp they looked for blueberries, but their

season was past. Suddenly a low bush, dotted with red berries, caught

their sight. They found the berries small and of so peculiar a taste

that, had they not been ravenous for food, they could not have eaten

them. They picked the bush bare and went to their bower, where they

ate them. A feeling of satisfaction followed, and Marie grew quiet and

contented.

“Sing to me, Archange: do?” and the little maid laid her down to rest

and listen. Her sister sang one after another the chansons her parents

had brought with them from Acadia. She ceased and marked the satisfied

expression that had overspread Marie’s countenance. Her eyes were

closed and her hands folded. “Sing the Cedars’ song?” she whispered, in

the voice of one about to sleep. By that name was meant a hymn Archange

had heard at Christmas tide, when for the first time to her knowledge

she had been in a church, having accompanied her father to the small

village of the Cedars. She knew not the words of the hymn, but had

carried away the tune. High and clear rose in the air and floated far

away across the desolate swamp the song in which so many generations

of believers have expressed their love for the Holy Babe--the ancient

Latin hymn, Adeste Fidelis. She sang the strain over and over again

until a strange torpor crept upon her, and her voice grew fainter until

it ceased and her head sank beside that of Marie’s.

All nature was hushed. The remains of trees, long since burned, now

gaunt and white, stood in the swamp as sentinels to guard the sleeping

babes, and the giant pines, beneath whose cover they rested, seemed to

lift up their hands to Heaven in silent pleading. Slowly yet surely the

berries of the dread ground-hemlock did their work; stealthily as juice

of mandrake or of poppy. The leaden hours of the long September night

passed and inky clouds blotted out the stars, and when the sun rose he

shot out a shaft of purplish light, which revealed the faces of the

sisters, calm and cold in death, with Mignon whisking his head against

the whitened cheek of his sweet mistress.

There was a roll of distant thunder; nearer and nearer it came; it grew

darker and the air was hot and stifling. The forest groaned, and then

there was an appalling crash and a blaze of lightning clad the scene

in dazzling sheen. There was the red glow of fire; the bolt had struck

a dead pine and instantly the surrounding trees, covered with withered

leaves, that caught like tinder, were in a blaze. The storm shrieked,

the thunder made the earth tremble, the rain fell in torrents, but

higher and higher mounted the flames. It was the funeral pyre of

Archange and Marie, and when it died out not a vestige of them was to

be found.

THE SETTLER’S FIRST GRIST.

CHAPTER I.

Late in the fall of 1817 seven families of immigrants settled on the

banks of the St Lawrence in Dundee, close to the St Anicet line and

nearly opposite the village of Lancaster. With one exception, they

had come from the Isle of Skye, and they named their settlement after

their Scottish birthplace, which was not altogether inappropriate, for

the strip of territory they had taken possession of was so surrounded

on the land side by swamps as to be, in a sense, an island. Apart

from two or three of their number who knew a little English, they

spoke Gaelic and Gaelic only. They brought naught beyond strong arms

and great endurance of privation, for their training as crofters and

fishermen was of little use in their new surroundings. An untrodden

wilderness of forest hemmed in their shanties, which were placed on

the bank of the St Lawrence, and on the other side of the great river,

which here expands into a lake two miles in width, were their nearest

neighbors, who had shown them the greatest kindness. Highlanders like

themselves, the people on the Glengarry side of the river had taken a

lively interest in the newcomers, had made bees to give them a fresh

start in life; crossed over the river to show them how to fell trees,

build shanties, and make potash, and when spring came had, with true

Highland generosity, lent them seed and assisted in brushing it in or

planting it amid the stumps of their clearings. In the black mould of

the virgin soil the potatoes grew with an abundance that surprised

the Skyemen, though their astonishment was greater at the luxuriance

of the Indian corn, which they saw for the first time, and at the

excellence of the wheat. When the latter was threshed the next step

was to get it ground. Their nearest mill was at Williamstown, in the

county of Glengarry, and to reach it involved a fatiguing journey. It

was a bright morning in the first week of October, 1818, that one of

the settlers placed a bag of wheat in a canoe to take to this mill. It

was his first grist--the first in his life of wheat--and he looked at

the bag, as he deposited it carefully in the bottom of the canoe, with

satisfaction not unmingled with honest pride, which was shared in by

his wife and children, who came to the water’s edge to see him off.

Assisted by his son, a handsome young fellow, the paddles were dipped,

and the boat was soon skimming lake St Francis, for so the expansion

of the St Lawrence between Cornwall and Coteau is named. When half-way

across they paused to rest, and as they viewed the noble sheet of

water, embedded in a setting of bush whose bright colors glowed in the

shimmering sunshine of a true Canadian fall day, they thought they had

never seen anything more beautiful. “And the best of it is, Allan, that

the water is fresh and not salt, and,” fixing his gaze on his shanty,

which he could discern beneath the trees, “the land is our own, and

there will be no rent to pay at Martinmas.”

When they got to the mill they found there were other customers before

them, and having to wait their turn, it was nearly dark when their

canoe passed out of the river Raisin into lake St Francis on their

homeward journey. The sun had set behind a cloud, and the lake, though

calm, had an oily appearance--both signs of a coming change. They had

gone far enough to lose sight of the shore they had left, when a slight

swell of the waters was noticed, and immediately afterwards the hollow

sound of approaching wind. Both practised boatmen of the Old World,

they knew what these signs meant. “Had we our old boat, Allan,” said

the father, “I would not care for the squall that’s coming, but this

cockle-shell will not stand a rough sea. It may soon blow over. Yonder

I think I see the light your mother has set in the window to guide us.

We will hurry before the waves get big.” Urged by their strong arms,

the canoe flew over the lake, but swifter came the storm, and before

many minutes a violent gust of wind, accompanied by pelting rain, burst

upon them. Like all shallow sheets of fresh water, the lake was quickly

beaten into a fury, and before long waves large enough not merely to

toss the boat but to drench its occupants were coursing over it. The

danger of swamping was imminent when the father’s skill averted it.

Directing his son to stretch himself full length in the bottom of

the canoe, using the bag of flour as a pillow, it steadied under the

living ballast. Then, taking his place at one end, the father brought

the other bow-on the wind and skilfully kept it, by vigorous use of

the paddle, in a line with the waves, so that the canoe breasted and

slipped over them, hardly shipping a drop of water. The fury of the

squall soon passed, and was succeeded by a gale which blew steadily

from the west. With that fine respect for parents which characterizes

Highlanders, Allan had offered no suggestion, obediently doing what his

father ordered. When he heard him say to himself “My God, we are lost!”

he exclaimed: “No, father, the storm will blow by, and we will then

make our way home this night yet.”

“Yes, the storm will blow over, but where will we be then? You forget,

my poor boy, that the lake ends in rapids, and we are hurrying towards

them as fast as wind and wave can drive us. Your mother and your

sisters and brothers will have sore hearts tomorrow.”

Allan had not thought of the rapids. On their way from Montreal he had

seen them, watched their foaming surges, and knew their canoe could

not live a moment among them. The thought of death was bitter to him,

and as the hours passed and they went drifting downwards, amid the

storm and darkness, towards the jaws of the dreaded danger, his heart

was filled with anguish, not alone for his mother, his brothers and

sisters, but for her with whom he had secretly plighted troth.

“Allan, I will shout to you when I see the rapids. Jump and try to make

the shore, for it may be near; do not trouble with me, or we both may

be lost. Be a good lad to your mother, and tell her and your brothers

and sisters my last thoughts were of them.”

CHAPTER II.

Mrs McDonald had tidied up the one and only room of the shanty, and

was expecting momentarily the arrival of her husband and son, when she

was terror-struck by the unlooked for sound of the squall among the

trees. Hurrying from the house, she stood on the beach, on which the

waves were beginning to break, but the darkness and rain prevented

her seeing many yards. In her agony of apprehension she shouted, in

the hope that the missing ones were near: from the stormy waters came

no reply. Bidding her children, who had followed her, to go and alarm

the neighbors, very soon every soul in the settlement was by her side,

talking rapidly in Gaelic and excitedly suggesting what ought to be

done. They were all agreed that if the canoe was on the lake when the

storm burst she was lost, and their sole hope was she had not left the

other shore. The only other canoe they had was no larger than the one

that was gone, and to launch it in order to search the lake, would be

to add to the calamity. All that could be done was to build a bonfire

on the most prominent point, to guide the missing canoe if within

sight, and hope for the best. Laying his hand on Mrs McDonald’s arm,

as she stood wistfully gazing on the now foaming waters of the lake,

the oldest man of the settlement said, “Come with us out of the cold

and wet; we can do no good here.” Gathered in the shanty, the fire was

replenished until it roared in the ample chimney, and the neighbors

talked hopefully to the family and despondently among themselves. When

the hope that the storm was only a passing squall was dissipated by its

settling into a gale, under the influence of which the waves lashed the

sandy beach with a roar so appalling that it stifled the groanings

of the forest, the men agreed among themselves that McDonald and his

son were at the bottom of the lake, and their hearts grew sore for

those whom they believed to be widowed and orphaned by the calamity.

Fighting with her fears, Mrs McDonald tried to persuade herself all

would come right, and assumed a complacency she was far from feeling.

“Often,” she remarked, “has my husband been out worse nights than this

in Scotland, and surely he who could fight the Atlantic is not going

to be drowned in a bit freshwater loch in Canada. To be sure there was

a winding-sheet in the candle last night, but that did not signify,

seeing that it was made from the fat of a wild deer, and not from that

of a Christian sheep. Not one of my family, and it goes far back, Mrs

McGillis, ever died without the wraith of Ian Ban, our forbear, who was

laird of Glenish, being seen, and it is not to be said he failed to

warn me when my husband and oldest son were near their end. I am not

afraid of them. They will be here tomorrow--Donald, like a good man,

go and see that the fire is blazing on the point--and we must keep our

composure. What is that?”

Close to the dwelling rose a prolonged howl, beginning at a low pitch

and rising to a piercing climax, the sound of which blanched every

face. Those nearest the door opened it; none ventured out. Every ear

was strained. In a few minutes the howl was repeated. “Pooh!” said a

young man, “it is only a wolf.”

The incident broke the tension of suspense, and one after another began

telling stories of their old life in Skye, having more or less bearing

on the situation of those they waited for. Thus the hours wore away,

and it was noted with satisfaction that at the turn of the night the

gale broke and speedily died away. The waves still ran too high for

the canoe to be launched to attempt to gain the other side of the lake

and make enquiries, but they were falling fast. When it was agreed it

would be safe to go, the settlers again gathered on the beach, which

was reddened by the beacon fire that still blazed. There was unexpected

delay; a paddle was found to be broken, and another had to be made,

and ere all was ready a faint whitening of the eastern sky told of

the coming day. It was now a beautiful night, calm and still, the

glassy swells of the lake reflecting the sparkle of the stars. Many a

searching glance was cast across the broad lake for the missing boat,

and dreadful apprehensions filled each bosom as to the secret its dark

waters kept. The canoe was about to start, the two men going with her

had dipped their paddles, and the group on the beach clustered closer

to see her off, when, faint and from afar, came over the surface of

the lake a plaintive murmur. Not a word was uttered, but every ear was

strained to catch the sound. It came again fitfully. Neighbor looked

with agony into the blanched face of neighbor. The one idea possessed

them, that it was the dirge of the spirits of their departed friends

as they were journeying to the place of souls. The mother impulsively

sprang forward until the water laved her feet and cried, “My Allan, my

first-born, is it you that is calling? Oh speak to me and tell where in

the cold deep I will find you.”

There was a shriek behind her which froze every heart. A young woman,

the winsome daughter of one of the settlers, had fallen senseless on

the sand.

The patriarch of the settlement who, at the first sound, had knelt

and placed his ear close to the lake, soon rose in stern reproof. “Is

it thus you welcome God’s mercy? Your son, Mrs McDonald, and your

lover, Flora, for so you have just revealed to us he is, is alive and

well. It is his voice singing the boat-song of the Isle of Mist, and I

hear the plash of oars.” And so it was, for now clear and strong came

from the lake the words of the song, and soon keen eyes could see the

approaching canoe. There was a shout of joy, and tears streamed from

every cheek. A few minutes more and the lost were among them.

When they had re-entered the shanty and the cup of rejoicing had gone

round, Mr McDonald told his story. As time passed, and the canoe

drifted farther down the lake, he had given up all hope and expected

every moment to feel it caught in the strong current that leads to the

rapids, and to hear their dreadful sound. “I was praying for you in my

heart,” he said, “when I heard the sound of breaking water. Allan, I

shouted, here they are at last; make ready to jump and swim for your

life. No sooner said than my paddle struck bottom and I saw trees

before me. Quick, Allan, jump and we will drag the canoe ashore. We

both sprang out at the same time, and catching hold of the canoe ran

her through the breakers and high on to the bank. We were wet and so

cold, but, oh, we were thankful that we were saved. After a while we

got up and moved round to see if a house was near, when we found that

we were on one of the small islands that lie at the head of the rapids.

A few rods one way or the other and we would have swept past it and

been lost. It was God’s own hand that had steered our canoe. Well, we

waited patiently till the gale went down, and as soon as we dared we

launched out again and paddled homeward. And a long pull we had, but it

warmed us.”

The bag of flour was opened. The water had caked the outside layer,

leaving the interior quite dry. The flour was examined with interest,

being the first from wheat grown in the settlement.

“Well,” exclaimed the patriarch, “it is time we were in our beds,

though it be now good daylight, and we will go to sleep with thankful

hearts that our good neighbor is with us and not at the bottom of the

lake. And you, Mrs McDonald, we wish well to, for you have this morning

found not only the son that was lost, but a daughter you knew not of,

and a good girl she is too. There is plenty of land here for all, and

we will build them a house and hold our New Year in it, and, please

God, we will not again risk life in these French cobbles of canoes, but

build a big boat.”

And so it came to pass. The New Year beheld Flora and Allan made one

with a merry-making that became a tradition in the settlement, their

Glengarry friends driving over the icy bosom of the lake to it in a

drove, and bringing two pipers to supply the music, and when spring

came a boat, large enough to carry half a dozen bags of flour, built

after the best Isle of Skye design, was launched in the creek beside

the shanty of William McPhee, and served the settlement many a long

year.

ABNER’S DEVICE.

“Abner, I want you to go a message for me after breakfast.”

“Yes, mother. Is it to Four Corners?”

“No; you are to go to the Blands, with a basket for old Mrs Whiting.”

“Why, that’s in Canada, and they’re our enemies.”

“Our governments are at war, but we old neighbors are not.”

“But the Indian guard may catch me.”

“If they do, they’ll not harm a boy like you.”

“Yes, they would, mother. They’d scalp anything that’s Yankee, and I

hate them and every Britisher. I don’t see why you want to do a good

turn to those who’ve been trying these two years to cut our throats and

burn our houses.”

“Abner!” exclaimed Mrs Smith reproachfully.

“I want to hit them every time, mother, and if I have got to go, you’ll

let me take father’s rifle.”

“No, Abner; you’ll go as you are, and if the Indian guard fall in

with you, their captain will let you go when you tell your errand. If

congress want to fight king George, that’s not to say we are to hate

and hurt those we have lived beside so long and who’ve done us many a

kindness.”

This conversation took place in the log shanty of a first settler in

northern New York in the fall of 1813. War was then in progress, and

a few days before General Hampton had returned from his attempt to

reach Montreal, and with his withdrawal to winter quarters the settlers

along the frontier supposed hostilities were ended for the season.

When war had been declared the settlers on the American side of the

lines were in terror of being visited by the Indians, whom the British

government had enrolled to watch the frontier, but as time proved their

apprehensions groundless, they were little affected by the contest that

was being waged, beyond having their intercourse with the settlers

on the Canadian side restricted, and that intercourse had been close

and frequent, for the difference in allegiance had not affected their

friendship. In the bush distance goes for little, and though five miles

apart, the Blands were Mrs Smith’s nearest neighbors to the north,

and their relation had been of the warmest kind. Unable, owing to the

presence of Hampton’s camp at Four Corners, to do their trading there,

Mrs Smith knew that the Blands must be without groceries and even

flour, and, at this, the first opportunity, she was eager to send them

some little comforts to vary their coarse fare, especially for Mrs

Whiting, the grandmother of the household, who was often bedridden from

rheumatism.

The basket was ready for Abner by the time he had finished breakfast.

His imagination had been fired by seeing the soldiers at fort Hickory

and at Four Corners, and to carry the basket in the usual way was out

of the question. Securing thin withe-ropes, made from the bark of the

moosewood, he slung the basket on his shoulders like a knapsack, and

catching up a cedar pole he grasped it as if it were a musket, and

shouting to himself the order, “Eyes front; right foot forward; quick

march!” off he set, fancying himself one of Colonel Purdy’s crack

brigade. Mrs Smith as, from the door, she watched her boy depart on his

errand, while she smiled at his wayward fancy, could not help feeling

a thrill of pride in his lithe, active figure, giving promise of a

handsome man. That he was shrewd and quick-witted, as well as tall and

strong, for his years, she well knew.

The weather had been extremely wet for the season; the ground was

soaked and the leaves had long ago been washed from all the trees

except the beech. During the night the rain had ceased, and the

morning, dull and hazy, gave promise of a dry day. Once out of his

father’s clearance, Abner’s way lay through the bush. There was a

foot-track that led to the Blands, but now it was so hidden by the

litter of leaves that it was indiscernible. That did not signify. Born

in the woods, they were so familiar that Abner could find his way in

any direction he chose, with as much ease as the dwellers in cities

traverse their intricacies of streets and lanes. As he threaded his

way among the trees, the chatter of the chipmunk, the whirr of the

partridge, and the tapping of a belated woodpecker were the only sounds

that fell on his ear, and no sight more unusual than an occasional

grey-squirrel or troop of deer. When he had crossed the line that

divides Chateaugay from Hinchinbrook, and was fairly on Canadian

territory, he became more circumspect, and his fancy changed. He was

no longer the right-hand man of a file of soldiers, but a scout, sent

into the enemy’s country to get information. Keeping under every cover

that offered, looking furtively around before venturing to cross any

open that came in his way, treading on the hardest ground he could

find, and doubling on his track where the soil treacherously retained

his footprints, he found playing at Abner the spy much more exciting

than that of Abner the soldier. Suddenly a crackling sound arrested his

footsteps. It was, he knew, no noise made by any denizen of the forest,

and he turned towards whence it came. Soon he caught the faint odor of

smoke, and then he knew there was a fire near--probably the camp-fire

of the British guard. Prudence whispered to him to turn away and pass

on; curiosity, to go and have a peep at the camp. He was only a boy

of fourteen, and curiosity carried the day. Slowly he stole towards

the point whence the crackling sound of blazing branches came, and so

noiselessly that even the squirrels failed to start at his approach

until he passed their perch. Now he could see the smoke, and next

the glare of the embers. He thought he saw the figure of a man, but

as, when he looked again, the shape was gone, he thought he had been

mistaken. He paused to listen. There was no sound save the drumming of

a partridge behind him. Redoubling his caution, he crawled towards the

spot whence the smoke rose, and when he slowly lifted his head from

behind a thicket, he was startled to find himself looking into a camp

of the dreaded Indian guard, of whom he had so often heard but never

seen. There they were, 21 in number, lying prostrate in sleep in a

circle around the fire and the pale autumn sunshine streaming down upon

them. Uncouth looking men they were, with daubs of paint on their faces

that made them hideous. Beside each one lay his musket, and some even,

in their sleep, grasped their hatchets, prepared, if surprised, for

immediate combat. Their captain Abner recognized from his being white

and wearing the sword and crimson sash of a British officer. With eager

eye Abner scanned the unexpected scene, and when the first feeling

of fear died away, he grew bold and thought of what he might have

accomplished had his mother allowed him to take his father’s rifle

with him. The exploits of Robert Rogers and Ethan Allen floated before

his mind’s eye and he planned how, had he been armed, he might have

shot the captain through the heart and have disappeared before any of

the sleeping group knew what had happened. Satisfied with the sight, he

moved to withdraw and resume his journey. At the first attempt to turn

around, his arms were seized with a grasp of iron, and, looking up,

he saw he was in the hands of an Indian, whose painted visage glared

with ferocity. Appalled for a moment, Abner stood still, then he made

a wrench to get away. It was in vain. Drawing the boy’s arms together,

the Indian grasped them by the wrists with his left hand, and when the

right hand was thus released he thrust it into the folds of his belt

of wampum. Abner’s eyes followed the movement, and when the hand was

withdrawn grasping a short, thick knife, which he recognized as the

scalping-knife he had heard so much of, a paroxysm of terror smote him,

and he gave a piercing shriek. With a diabolical grin, as if he enjoyed

the boy’s terror, the Indian passed the knife before Abner’s eyes and

tried its edge on his soft chubby cheek, then flourished it before

plunging into his scalp. As he made the motion, a billet of wood came

hurtling past, and striking the Indian on the head, he fell, dragging

Abner down with him. He was lifted up by the captain, whom Abner had

seen asleep a minute before, and as he passed his hand over him to make

sure he was unhurt, he poured forth a torrent of angry words, in his

own language, at the Indian, who gave no sign that the knockdown blow

he had received had hurt him. As the captain led Abner into the circle

of Indians, who had been awakened by his shriek, he told him he had

been scolding his assailant for attempting to scalp him, and said in

apology that he was a heathen Indian of the far west, a Blackfoot who

had strayed to the Ottawa, and joined a band of the Iroquois. “I do not

allow my men to be cruel; my orders be to watch the frontier to prevent

invasion by your soldier, and not to hurt anybody.” Then he asked

Abner who he was and why he had come nigh their camp, and was answered

frankly.

“Ah, my leetle man,” said the captain, who spoke with a French

accent, “if you tell me true you get away; but I’m afraid you carry

letter,--despatch--eh!” Taking the basket from his back, the captain

lifted out its contents, among which were half-a-dozen apples, then a

luxury in the new settlement, where the few fruit trees planted had not

begun to bear. An Indian snatched up one and took a bite, laughingly

saying, “Yankee apple better nor Yankee bullet.” The other contents

were of as innocent a description: a few little luxuries that might

tempt an invalid, a small bag of flour, and a bottle of liniment.

The captain, satisfied there was no letter in the basket, carefully

replaced its contents, and then examined Abner’s clothing, making him

even take off his shoes. While thus engaged an Indian slouched up

beside the captain and, throwing down his musket, began to speak to

him, and Abner listened to the guttural sounds with awe.

“Dis man,” said the captain, “tell me he see you leave clearance and

follow you. He say, when you come to Canada side you act as ’fraid,

hide behind bush, and walk ve-ray fooney. Why you no want to be seen?”

Abner blushed at this description of his enacting the role of Indian

scout and perceived how his conduct could be misconstrued. He

remembered, also, his mother’s repeated injunction that truth is better

under any circumstances, and, with a shamed smile on his face, he told

what he was doing. The captain grinned as he listened and patting Abner

on the back said: “I know; boy once myself and now fadder of four; you

play one leetle game of Indian spy, not tinking real Indian watch you.

You one good, honest-faced boy. Pity you Yankee.”

The Indian who had tracked him, smiled as the captain spoke, showing he

understood English, and, like all his race, enjoyed banter. “You smell

smoke, eh?” he said, “hold up nose and go on. Then you hear partridge

drum (here he imitated the sound) me partridge and signal to Joe; Joe

steal up behind, catch arms, pull out knife, you--squeal,” and here, as

if overcome by the ludicrousness of the scene, the Indian grinned from

ear to ear without emitting a single sound of laughter, and poked Abner

in the side.

“You make big mistake tink you come to Indian camp without we know,”

remarked the captain, “when we sleep, sentinel all round like fox.”

Changing the subject, the captain tried to get from Abner what he knew

of the movements and whereabouts of the American army, particularly

of the number still in camp at Four Corners, which Abner admitted he

had visited the day before. It was without avail. The boy realized the

information he would give might be used against his countrymen, and he

answered evasively. “Ah, well,” exclaimed the captain, “it no matter;

we’ve our spies in your camp so well as in de bush.”

The Indians were now busily preparing breakfast, and Abner watched them

with curious eyes as they placed potatoes and pieces of pork to cook

upon the hot embers, while a copper-kettle with tea was slung on a

crooked stick. Their duties required them to be on the patrol along the

frontier during the night, which accounted for their sleeping so late.

“Vell,” said the captain, “what you tink of dese Indian? Yankee able to

catch ’em? Eh? You tell, when you get home, what great fellow Indians

be. Now you may go, and give Mrs Bland de compliment of Captain de

Versailles and say he will do her de honor of taking supper with her.”

Thus permitted to resume his journey, Abner struck into the bush, and

in half an hour had reached the house of the Blands. He was hailed

with an uproarious welcome from every member of the large household,

for there was the delight not only of resuming long-suspended friendly

intercourse, but the proof in his appearance that the warfare waged

between the two governments had not lessened the goodwill of their

neighbors. Unpacking the basket, it was found to contain a little of

everything they had been so long deprived from being shut out from the

American stores. On the cork being drawn from the bottle of liniment,

granny declared that the very smell had done her rheumatics good. As

the contents of the basket lay spread on the table, a sudden thought

seemed to strike Mrs Bland, which she communicated in a whisper to her

husband. There was a quiet consultation, and then she addressed Abner.

“We have something strange to tell you, and mum’s the word. Night

before last, when we were asleep, a knock came to the door and then it

was pushed open. Father rose, stirred the fire, and got a light, when

we saw it was an American soldier. He was drenched to the skin, for it

was pouring rain, and, oh, what a pale, thin ghost he looked! He crept

up to the fire and sank in a heap beside it, muttering, ‘Thank God.’ I

saw he was perishing, and got some hot drink for him, and after a while

he told his story. He had been with Hampton’s army in the battle, where

he had received a flesh wound in the side, and when Purdy’s brigade

fell back he was unable to keep up with them, got separated from his

company, and, in the dark, lost his way. Next morning he tried to find

the trail of the army, but failed, and then, guided by the sun, struck

south, knowing he would in time reach the States. Too weak to carry

them, he threw away his musket and ammunition, and crawled, rather

than walked. When the last biscuit in his haversack was eaten, he had

to trust to beech and butter nuts, though he was not hungry, for his

wound fevered him. Often he lay down, thinking he would never rise

again, but he was young and strong, and when he revived a little he

pushed on, until, to his great joy, he struck our clearing. He thought

he was in the States, and when we told him our house was on the Canada

side he was dreadful afraid we would give him up, and he would be sent

to Montreal as a prisoner. We soon eased him on that score; our big

trouble was to hide him from the Indian guard until we could get him

sent across the lines.”

“Yes, mother,” interrupted one of her sons, “they came to our house the

next day, and are close by yet.” Abner shivered.

“Well,” resumed Mrs Bland, “I made the poor Yank take off his wet

clothes and lie down in our warm bed. I dressed his wound for the first

time, and it was raw and nasty, I can tell you, and then he fell asleep

like a baby, poor fellow. I cleaned and set his clothes to dry, and as

I sat mending them next morning father and I consulted. To keep him in

the house was to give him up to the Indians, and he was too weak to

travel farther. Where to hide him until he was able to leave bothered

us, when, all of a sudden, father thought of the big platform that

stands near the spring in the bush, two acres back, which the Indians

raised last year for still hunting. It was late in the day when he

awoke, and he found himself weak as water but the fever had left him.

We told him what we intended, and, after he had eaten something, father

and the boys carried him to the platform, rolled him in a blanket and

covered him with elm bark and cedar brush. We have taken him victuals

after dark, and last night, seeing it was wet, we fetched him over and

gave him a night’s rest in bed. He eats little, for his stomach is

turned against our common food, and he’ll be glad of what your mother

has sent. Now, Ab, can’t you think of some plan to get this poor fellow

across the lines?”

He could not think of any, for the woods were full of Indians, but he

would like to visit the wounded soldier. Preparing as tasty a repast as

she could out of the victuals sent by Mrs Smith, Abner and Mrs Bland

started for his place of concealment. As is their custom, the Indians

had raised the platform in a thicket, which commanded a runway, and was

therefore well concealed, and, what was of equal consequence at that

season, sheltered from the wind. On coming beneath it, Mrs Bland spoke,

when there was a movement above, and a face, so ashy pale and wasted

that Abner felt a creeping feeling pass over him, peered from beyond

the edge. “Here’s a boy from Yankeetown and a dinner cooked from the

provisions he has brought.”

“He’s welcome,” faintly whispered the soldier. “I wish I could go back

with him.”

Taking the basket in one hand, Abner climbed up to the platform with

the agility of a squirrel, and helped the soldier to raise himself and

arrange the food. When he saw the wheaten bread, he said it put him in

mind of home, and he fell to and made the best meal he had partaken of

since the fatal day on the Chateaugay. His strength returned with the

grateful food and he asked Abner many questions, what Hampton had done

after the battle, where he was now, were many killed, did the British

follow him up, and were there many Indians in the woods. When he heard

of Abner’s encountering the Indians that morning, he shuddered, and

Abner could not help thinking of what his fate would be did one of them

ferret out his retreat, a reflection that increased his desire to save

him. Leaving the soldier in a cheerful and hopeful mood, he slipped

back to the Blands, puzzling his head to devise some plan of rescuing

his countryman.

After dinner, which consisted of corn boiled in milk, and potatoes

with fried venison, the Bland boys proposed to go partridge shooting,

and Abner agreed, as he was in no hurry to return home. So off they

went. In beating the woods, a coon was started, and it supplied the

idea Abner had been seeking for. Before they returned home he had

worked it out and determined to submit it to Mrs Bland. On approaching

the door they heard peals of laughter, when one of the boys remarked,

“The captain has come; he’s a jolly one with the girls,” and on

entering, they found that personage entertaining the family in his

liveliest style. Abner bit his lip and saw he must bide his time.

Supper is an early meal in the backwoods, and after enjoying it to

the full, and diverting and flattering each of the household, Captain

Versailles, with many apologies for duty requiring him to leave such

delightful company, left to return to his Indians. No sooner had he

gone, than Abner asked abruptly, “These moonlight nights don’t you go

coon-hunting?”

“Don’t we, Ab,” answered one of the boys, “think you’d say so if you

saw the skins nailed on the barn-door.”

“Well, then, I’ve a plan to get the soldier away with me,” which he

proceeded to lay before them. Briefly it was, that the boys should go

with their guns a mile or so east and close to the boundary-line, when

they would begin firing and shouting. The Indians, thinking it was an

attack from Fort Hickory, would hurry to meet the invaders, leaving the

western part of the frontier unguarded, and let Abner slip across with

the soldier.

“It’s feasible,” said Mr Bland, “the trouble is the poor fellow isn’t

able to walk a rod, let alone five miles.”

“He’ll die from cold if left out longer,” remarked his wife; “we must

run some risk. He might be able to keep on the back of the old white

mare.”

“That’s so,” answered her husband, “we’ll try Ab’s plan.”

As no time was to be lost, it being essential to make the diversion

before the Indians were detailed by Captain Versailles to their posts

for the night, the boys caught up their guns and left, while Abner and

Mr Bland slipped over to the hiding-place of the soldier, told him

what was intended, and helped him down from his perch. The prospect of

speedy escape gave him unwonted strength, and leaning on his friends

he managed to walk to the house, where Mrs Bland, after dressing his

wound, insisted on washing his face and tidying him up. “For sure,” she

said, “you’re going home to your friends, and you mustn’t give Canada a

bad name.”

“That I never will,” murmured the grateful soldier, “God has anointed

the hearts of both peoples with the same oil of kindness, and it’s only

the politicians and big men on both sides that make trouble between us.”

The evening was calm and mild for the season, and Mr Bland sat

listening by the open door. Presently, there burst from a remote corner

of the woods, a sharp volley, followed by such shouts and cries as

would lead the listener to fancy a fierce fight was in progress. “There

they are!” exclaimed Mr Bland, while the shots and uproar continued to

increase, “let ’em keep that up for five minutes, and there won’t be an

Indian within earshot who won’t be running to the spot.”

The noise did continue that long and longer too, while, with skilful

imitation, it subsided and increased, and passed from one part of the

woods to another, the cheers of soldiers mingling with equally good

imitations of Indian yells, giving the impression of a running fight

between a detachment of the American garrison and the Indian guard.

When Mr Bland considered all the Indians had left for the neighborhood

of the supposed fight, the old mare was brought to the door, which the

soldier was helped to mount, and Abner, grasping the bridle, led the

way. By this time the moon was high enough to be pouring down its rays

through the tree-tops, and though its light was useful in showing him

how to avoid obstacles and to go much faster than they otherwise could

have done, Abner would have dispensed with it for fear of its revealing

their presence to the Indians. His fear was groundless. His device was

a complete success. Not an Indian was met, the woods were traversed

in safety, and Abner exulted in the thought how he had tricked the

Indians, and almost laughed right out when he pictured to himself their

disgust, on reaching the scene of the supposed fight, to find it to

be only a coon-hunt. If they had trapped him in the morning, he had

outwitted them in the evening. When the light of his father’s house was

discerned, Abner relieved his feelings by a great shout of exultation,

that drew his parents to the door.

“Well, Abner, you see the Indians did not catch you?”

“Didn’t they mother! I feel the clutch of one of ’em at my scalp yet.

Won’t you help the stranger down, father? He is a soldier and wounded.”

“Wounded! Poor critter, I must get the bed ready,” and Mrs Smith darted

indoors.

Stiff and sore from the exertion and cold, the poor soldier was like

to fall when they helped him off the mare, and, gently, father and son

carried him to the bed.

“Poor man, ain’t he tuckered out!” exclaimed Mrs Smith, as she

approached him when his head had been laid on the pillow. Shading the

candle she glanced at him, started, looked again, and crying out,

“Blessed if it ben’t my own brother Bill from Varmont!” she fell on his

neck in a paroxysm of hysterical sobs. And so it turned out to be. He

had been among those last drafted to reinforce Hampton, and had been

unconscious that his sister lived so near the camp at Four Corners.

Abner was the hero of the night when the soldier told how he had been

the means of saving him. “No,” said the lad modestly, “it was mother’s

sending me against my will to the Blands that saved you.”

“That’s so, Abner, and you never forget it, that blood is thicker than

water, and in doing a kind deed to those you considered an enemy we

were serving ourselves.”

WHAT A SETTLER TOLD ME.

After the stifling heat and blinding glare of a Canadian summer day,

it is most refreshing to walk forth as the sun, shorn of its strength,

sinks, a glowing ball of fire, behind the forest that edges the

landscape. Vegetation, wilted by the day’s glaring heat, revives with

the dewy coolness of the hour, and from the neighboring bush comes the

song of the greybird. As the glow fades from the sky, nowhere else in

the world of tenderer blue or more translucent depth, the stars drop

into sight, and should Venus be in the ascendant, she burns with a

white flame unknown at any other season. Generally, with the setting

of the sun, a light breeze springs up from the west or northwest,

refreshing to the farmers who toiled throughout the sultry day, and

swaying the heads of timothy until the meadows seem to be swept by

billows. The eye of the saunterer takes in the scene, passing over the

great flat fields of grain and grass, until ended by the recurring

belt of bush; the snug farm-houses set amid shade-trees and orchards;

the pond-like reaches of the Chateaugay, sleeping peacefully in the

hollows of its rounded banks, unruffled save as the wing of one of the

swallows, that skim its glassy surface, frets it for a moment, or from

the leap of an inhabitant of its clear waters; and, in the finished

beauty of the picture, he finds it hard to realize that he is looking

upon the results of the labor of scarce half a century, that underneath

a few of the roofs before him still live men and women who saw the

country when a wilderness of forest and swamp, and who are survivors

of the generation who wrought the wondrous change--men and women who

underwent privations the most painful and labors the most exhausting

in making the country what it is. To give those who have inherited

the fruits of their sacrifices some idea of what the first settlers

underwent, I here submit the narrative of one of them, as nearly as may

be in the words I was told it:

You have driven a long way to see me, sir, and I am afraid I can

tell you little worth the hearing. It is strange you should go to

so much trouble to gather these old-time stories, but if I can tell

you anything that will be of use to you I am willing. You want me to

begin with our leaving the Old Country and go on in order, as you can

recollect best that way. Very well, only you will have to come and

see me again, for it is a long story, and if you print any of it, you

are to change it so that nobody will know who told you. I don’t mind

myself, but some of my children might not like it.

We belonged to the Border, and the first sight that met my eyes every

morning was the Eildon hills. My husband was a shepherd and we lived

well enough until our family began to grow large, and then we thought

it would be well for their sake to try Canada. We had a little saved

and that, with what we got from the roup of our furniture, paid our

passage and plenishing. We sailed from the Solway, into which a big

ship from Liverpool called for a party of emigrants. We were rowed

out in small boats, and when I got on to her deck my heart failed

me, for such dirt and confusion I never saw the like, crowded as she

was with 242 emigrants from county Kerry, who had gone on board at

Liverpool. This we never expected, but it was too late now, and we

had to make the best of it. The sight below was worse than above, and

I turned fairly sick when I went down the ladder to our berths; the

noise was bad enough but the smell was just awful. The mate, a swearing

character, was not without a show of decency, and did the great favor

of allotting to us Border folks, who numbered an even six dozen, the

row of berths aft the main hatchway, so that we were kept together. We

slipped out of the firth that night with the tide, and next morning,

which was a most beautiful day, we kept tacking off and on the coast

of the North of Ireland. As we got out on the ocean I grew sea-sick,

and for a few days I was just in misery; having to attend the children

yet hardly able to raise my head. The ship’s provisions were scanty

and very bad, which did not matter much to us, for we had taken a good

deal with us, but the poor Irish, who had brought nothing, were always

wanting to borrow, and as we, not having more than enough to serve

ourselves, had to refuse, they abused us for being proud, and tried to

pick quarrels, but both the Scotch and English of us kept our tempers

and gave them no offence. Their jealousy and ill-feeling grew, and one

morning they banded together to prevent our getting hot water at the

galley. This we could not stand, for the water was bad and only fit to

drink when boiled and made into tea or gruel. The captain refused to

interfere, being afraid, we thought, of having trouble with the Kerry

men, and when we told the mate he only swore at our lads for a cowardly

lot of sheep-tenders. When dinner-time came, our men got out their

crooks, and, going quietly on deck, formed in a column and, laying

about them right and left, cleared a road to the galley. There were

fearful threats made, but nothing came of them, and after that we were

respected and left alone.

The ship made little headway owing to the wind keeping in the west,

and it was on the eighth day of our voyage that it became known to

us that a woman, who had been sick for some time, was ill of the

fever. On that day she got delirious and her people could not hide the

truth longer. Four of the oldest men of our party were sent to tell

the captain. He made light of their news and said they were mistaken

about the disease, but he refused to come and see the woman or to

erect a partition across the hold to separate us from the rest of the

passengers. We took his treatment sore to heart. When ship-owners get

his passage-money, they don’t care what becomes of the poor emigrant,

and would just as soon he would die on the voyage as land him. We went

to sleep that night sad and frightened, for we knew, by reading the

papers, what ship-fever meant. Well, next day the woman was worse, and

on the evening of the third she died. We were all anxious that the

corpse should be buried at once, so that the infection might not be

spread by it, and two of our folk, taking some things that might be

useful in preparing the body, went over to where it lay to advise that

that be done. The poor creatures got angry at once, and drove them

back, and cursed us for a set of heretics, who would put the decent

woman out of sight without waking her. They laid the corpse on top

of some chests in the centre of the ship, surrounded it by candles,

and then the keening began, which drove me nearly into hysterics. The

captain, hearing what was going on, sent down a keg of rum, and made

matters worse. Towards morning, when the drink had taken effect, they

began to quarrel, and the noise and confusion was terrible. There being

no partition, we could see the whole length of the hold, with the rows

of berths on either side, and towards the far end, in the middle of the

ship, was the white heap formed by the corpse and lighted by candles,

with the women sitting around it, wailing in the most unearthly way,

and taking no heed of the men and children who swarmed outside of them,

talking, shouting, pushing, and fighting. A candle was knocked down

and there was a cry of fire, but an old woman smothered it with her

cloak. As we could not sleep, and were afraid they might come to our

end of the ship and give us trouble, we went on deck to wait till all

was over. It was a cold, raw morning, with not enough of wind to keep

the ship from pitching, but anything was better than being below. When

the eight o’clock bell struck, the Irish came swarming up, bearing the

corpse. They rested it awhile by the bulwarks, when all, even to the

smallest child, fell on their knees in prayer. Then it was lifted over

and let drop into the ocean. The sailors would not help, keeping by

themselves on the forecastle, for they were afraid of the infection.

As four days passed without a new case, we were beginning to hope the

danger was passed, but on the fifth three children took ill, and before

the week was done there were 17 down. After that the disease had its

own way, and deaths became so frequent that it was impossible to hold

wakes. We pitied the poor creatures, and gave more than we could spare

to help them. The worst want of the sick was water and though it smelt

so that a horse would not have touched it and not worth the saving,

for there was plenty on board such as it was, the captain would not

order that the allowance be increased, but he encouraged the steward to

sell liquor, in the profit of which he shared. I cannot begin to tell

you of the scenes we had to endure; it was of God’s mercy that they

did not take away our senses. If the ship was dirty before the fever

broke out, it was worse now, and the smell, as you stepped from the

deck, was like to knock you down. None of our folk, with one sorrowful

exception, took the disease, which was not considered strange by the

Irish, for they accounted the taking away of the sick, especially of

the young, as a sign of favor by the saints, who carried them to glory.

The exception was my husband. When about to raise a tin of tea to his

lips one morning, he saw a child looking at him from her berth with

such entreating eyes, that he went over and held the vessel to the

girl’s mouth. When she was satisfied, he drank what was left. Three

days after he complained of a racking headache, which was followed

by a chill, after that the fever set in. Just because he was such a

lusty man the disease went hard with him, and on the tenth day of his

illness I saw there was no hope. It was in the afternoon as I sat by

him, listening to his ravings, that he suddenly sat up, and pointing

to the shaft of sunshine that poured down the hatchway into the dark

and loathsome hold, he said, “It fa’s on the Cheviots and glints on

the Tweed e’noo; let me bask in’t once mair.” We carried him over and

laid him in the sunlight. The delirium left him, and a sweet smile came

to his face. “Hae ye onything to say?” I whispered in his ear. “No,

Mailie,” he answered softly, “I am quite happy an’ feel the grip o’ my

Saviour’s han’: God will be wi’ you and the bairns.” He never opened

his een mair, but the smile lingered on his lips until the sun began

to sink, and as he felt the glow leave his cheek, he muttered, “It’s

growin’ late and the nicht will be ower cauld for the lammies; I’ll

ca’ the ewes frae the knowes,” and so saying he slipped awa wi’ the

Great Shepherd o’ the Sheep to the lown valley and the still waters.

Though my sorrow was like to rive my head, I kept my composure, for

there was work to be done, and nothing can excuse neglect of duty.

I prepared him for burial, and when all was ready, an old friend, a

brother shepherd of my husband from a boy, gave out the 90th psalm,

and when it had been sung, he read the 14th chapter of John, and

offered up a most soul-striving prayer, so that, when the corpse was

lifted, there was not a dry cheek. We followed as it was carried to

the deck. The ship was on the banks of Newfoundland, and the ocean was

a dead calm, the new moon lighting up the thin haze of mist that lay

upon it. I had wrapped my husband in his plaid, and thrust his crook

lengthways through the outer fold. Holding each an end of it, two of

the strongest of our men swung the body well out from the ship’s side.

As it disappeared I felt that my love for man as wife had gone with it,

and such a sense of desolation came over me as words cannot tell.

Five days after we came to quarantine, where the sick were landed, and,

just five weeks and two days from the time we left Scotland, we sailed

into Quebec harbor. We were a small and heartbroken handful. Our chests

had been brought on deck and we sat on them, waiting for the steamer

to come alongside that was to carry us to Montreal. None of our folk

had asked me what I was going to do, and I knew the reason. It was not

that they were unwilling to help me, but because they had more than

they could do to mind themselves. They felt for me sore, but they could

not take the bite out of their own children’s mouths to give to mine.

Indeed, there was hardly one of them who knew what they were going to

do, for they had come to Canada to seek new homes on chance. I had had

my own thoughts and had marked out what I would try to do.

“There’s the steamer; get yer bairns thegither and I’ll look to yer

kists.”

It was a hard-favored man that spoke, a shepherd named Braxton from

Cumberland, who all the voyage had hardly said a word. Glad of his help

I followed him. He bought milk and bread for us when the steamer called

at Three Rivers, but never saying aught until Montreal was in sight.

“What beest thou gaun to do?” he asked. I said I was going to bide in

Montreal and try to get something to do. I was strong and had a pair of

good hands. He gave a kind of snort.

“Ye canna mak eneugh to keep five bairns; ye’d better come wi’ me.”

“Where till?” I asked.

“I dinna knaw yet, but I’se get lan’ somewhere near and ye’se keep

house for me.”

“Are ye a single man?” He nodded. I sat thinking. He was a stranger to

me beyond what I had seen of him on the ship. Could I trust him? Here

was a home for my children in the meanwhile. For their sake would I do

right to refuse the offer? My mind was made up, and I told him I would

go with him.

“I canna offer thee wages,” he said.

“I dinna ask any.”

“Very well,” he replied, and no more was said.

By this time they had yoked the steamer to a string of oxen, which

helped it up the current into the harbor, and in course of an hour we

were in Sandy Shaw’s tavern. In answer to Braxton, the landlord told

him of there being bush land easy to be had near to the city. Next day

at sunrise he left to see it, and it was after dark on the third day

when he came back. He had got a lot on the Chateaugay, and we were to

start for it early next day. I had the children dressed soon after

daylight, and the three youngest rode on the French cart that was hired

to take our chests to Lachine. The rest of us followed on foot. It was

a fine morning, but very warm, and the road was deep with dust, which

the wind raised in clouds like to choke us. When we got to Lachine we

were disappointed to find that the ferryboat was unable to leave her

wharf owing to the strong wind blowing down the lake and which had

raised a heavy sea. We sat on our boxes and spent a weary day, my head

being just like to split with the heat and the shouting and jabbering

of the bateau men. There were several hundred emigrants waiting besides

ourselves, for the Durham boats could not start until the wind changed.

We could not get a bite to buy, for the Canadians were afraid of us

on account of the fever, and they had reason, for among those waiting

were many who had been sick of it, and there were some who were so

white and wasted that you would say the hand of death was upon them.

Towards sunset the wind fell and the lake got calmer, so the ferry

boat started. Her paddles were not driven by a steam-engine but by

a pair of horses, which went round and round. It was going to be

moonlight, so when we were put off at the Basin, we thought we would

push on to Reeves’s, for it would be cooler than to walk next day, and

we might thereby catch the canoes Braxton had bespoke. A cart was hired

to convey our chests and the younger children, and we set off. We got

along very well for about five miles, when we heard distant thunder,

and half an hour after the sky was clouded and we saw a storm would

soon burst. We knocked at the doors of several houses, but none would

let us in. As soon as the habitants saw we were emigrants, they shut

the door in our face, being afraid of the fever. When the rain began to

fall, the boy who was driving halted beneath a clump of trees by the

river-side, and I got under the cart with the children. It just poured

for about half an hour and the lightning and thunder were fearful. We

were soon wet to the skin, and I felt so desolate and lonesome, that I

drew my shawl over my head, and, hugging my youngest child to my bosom,

had a good cry. Those born here cannot understand how castdown and

solitary newcomers feel. For months after I came, the tear would start

to my eye whenever I thought of Scotland. Well, the storm passed, and

the moon came out bright in a clear sky. It was much cooler, but the

roads were awful, and we went on, slipping at every step or splashing

through mud-holes. Had I not been so much concerned about the children,

I could never have got through that night; helping and cheering them

made me forget my own weariness. It was getting to be daylight when the

cart at last stopped in front of a long stone house, in which there was

not a soul stirring, though the doors were all open. The boy pointed us

to where the kitchen was and turned to unyoke his horse. I found four

men sleeping on the floor, who woke up as we went in. They were French

and very civil, giving up the buffaloes they had been sleeping upon for

the children. I sat down on a rocking-chair, and fell at once asleep.

The sound of somebody stamping past woke me with a start. It was the

master of the house, a lame man, whom I found out after to be very

keen but honest and kind in his way. It was well on in the day, and

breakfast was on the table. I was so tired and sore that I could hardly

move. Braxton came in and asked if we were able to go on, for the

canoes would be ready to start in an hour. I was determined he should

not be hindered by me, so I woke up the children, washed and tidied

them as I best could, and then we had breakfast, which did us a deal

of good. There were two canoes, which were just long flat boats, with

two men in each to manage them. Our baggage and ourselves were divided

equally between them, and we started, everything looking most fresh

and beautiful, but the mosquitoes were perfectly awful, the children’s

faces swelling into lumps, and between them and the heat they grew

fretful. For a long way after leaving Reeves’s there were breaks in

the bush that lined the river banks--the clearances of settlers with

shanties in front--but they grew fewer as we went on, until we would go

a long way without seeing anything but the trees, that grew down to the

water’s edge. Getting round the rapids was very tiresome, and it was

late in the day when the men turned the canoes into a creek and pulled

up alongside its west bank. This was our lot and where we were to stay.

Placing our boxes so as to form a sort of wall, the canoemen felled

some small cedars for a roof, and, lighting a fire, they left us. I

watched the boats until they were out of sight and the sound of their

paddles died away, and then felt, for the first time, what it is to be

alone in the backwoods. There was so much to do that I had no time to

think of anything, and the children were happy, everything being new to

them. The kettle was put on and tea made, and we had our first meal on

our farm--if you had seen it, with the underbrush around us so thick

that we could not go six rods, you would have said it never could be

made a farm.

We slept that night under our cover of cedar bushes and slept sound. In

the morning Braxton and my oldest boy started down the track, for it

was no road, that followed the bank of the Chateaugay, to see if the

settlers below would help to raise a shanty, and while they were gone

I did my best to get things into order. For all I had come through,

there was lightness in my heart, for there is a freedom and hopefulness

in living in the woods that nothing else seems to give one, and I made

child’s play of discomforts that would have disheartened me had I been

told of them before leaving Scotland. It was nigh noon when Braxton

came back. He had been made welcome everywhere, all were glad to have

a new neighbor, and the promise given that word would be sent to all

within reach to come to a bee next day. After dinner he took the axe

and tried his hand at chopping. He began on a tree about half a foot

thick and was nicking it all round, we looking on and admiring.

“Ye’ll kill somebody with that tree,” said a voice behind us, and

turning, to our astonishment we saw a tall woman, in a poke-bonnet,

looking on. Explaining that it was necessary to know how a tree would

fall, she pointed how any direction could be secured by the way it was

chopped, and, seizing the axe, she showed how, and, under her strokes,

the first tree fell amid the shouts of the children. She was the wife

of our nearest neighbor, and, on hearing of our arrival, had come over

to see us, “Being real glad,” as she said, “to have a woman so near.”

She stayed an hour, and after finding out all about us, showed me how

to do a great many things needful in bush-life. Among the rest, how

to make a smudge to protect us from the mosquitoes, which was a real

comfort.

Next morning six men came and spent the day in clearing space for the

shanty and in making logs for it. The day after, Braxton with two of

the men went to Todd’s to buy boards and rafted them down the river.

On the third day the raising took place, and that night, though it was

not finished, we slept in it, and proud we were, for the house as well

as the land was our own. It was quite a while before Braxton could

finish it, for there was more pressing work to do, and for a month

and more our only door was a blanket. The fire was on the hearth with

an open chimney made of poles covered with clay. And here I must tell

of my first trial at baking. We had brought a bag of flour and, once

established in our shanty, I resolved to make a loaf. As you know, in

Scotland there is no baking of bread in the houses of the commonality,

and though nobody could beat me at scones or oat cake, I had never seen

a loaf made. I thought, however, there was no great knack about it. I

knew hops were needed, and sent one of my boys with a pail to borrow

some from my neighbor, who sent it back half full. I set to work, and

after making a nice dough I mixed the hops with it, and moulded a

loaf, which my oldest son, who had seen the process while visiting

round, undertook to bake. He put it into a Dutch oven, or chaudron, and

heaping hot ashes over it, we waited for an hour, when the chaudron was

taken out and the cover lifted. Instead of a nice, well-raised loaf,

there was at the bottom of it a flat black cake. “Maybe it will taste

better than it looks,” says I, thrusting a knife at it, but the point

was turned, and we found our loaf to be so hard that you could have

broken it with a hammer. And the taste! It was bitter as gall. Well,

that was a good lesson to me, and I was not above asking my neighbors

after that about matters on which I was ignorant.

No sooner had shelter been provided for us, than we all turned to with

hearty will to clear up a bit of land. My boys were a great help, and

the oldest got to be very handy with the axe, which was well, for

Braxton never got into the right hang of using it, and spent double

the strength in doing the same work my boy did. There is quite an art

in chopping. It was exhausting work clearing up the land, being quite

new to us and the weather very hot. Often had Braxton to lay down his

axe and bathe his head in the creek, but he never stopped, working from

dawn to darkening, and when it was moonlight still longer. I helped to

brush and log, as much to encourage my boys to work as for all I could

do. When ready to burn, three neighbors came to show us how to do it

and, the logs being large and full of sap, it was a slow and laborious

job. The men looked like Blackamoors, being blacker than any sweeps,

from smoke and the coom that rubbed off the logs, while the sweat just

rolled down them, owing to the heat of the fires and the weather. We

came on to our lot on the 29th of May and it was well on in June when

the remains of the logs were handspiked out of the way and the ground

was kind of clear between the stumps on half an acre. In the ashes we

planted potatoes, and a week after, when a bit more land was taken in,

we put in a few more. This done, we turned to make potash. Except along

the creek there was no timber on our lot fit for making ashes but on

its banks there was a fine cut of swale elm. The chopping of the trees

was the easiest part of the work, the getting of the logs together and

burning them being difficult, the underbrush being very thick and we so

short of help in handling the felled trees. A neighbor showed us how

to make a plan-heap and skid logs, but from inexperience we did not

work to much advantage that summer. We, however, wrought with a will

and kept at it, even my youngest, Ailie, helping by fetching water to

drink. Young people nowadays have no idea of what work is, and I don’t

suppose that one in twenty of them would go through what their fathers

and mothers did. Although it was a dry summer, the banks of the creek

were soft, so our feet were wet all the time and we had to raise the

heaps on beds of logs to get them to burn. Our first lot of ashes we

lost. Before they could be lifted into the leaches, a thunderstorm came

on and in a few minutes the labor of a fortnight was spoiled. After

that, we kept them covered with strips of bark.

The neighbors were very kind. They had little and had not an hour to

spare, but they never grudged lending us a hand or sharing with us

anything we could not do without. There was no pride or ceremony then,

and neighbors lived as if they were one family. One of them who had

a potash kettle lent it to us, and it was fetched on a float or sort

of raft, which was pushed up the creek as far as it would go. Then

the kettle was lifted out and carried by main strength, suspended on

a pole. We had thought the chopping, the logging, and the burning bad

enough, (the carrying of water to the leaches and the boiling of the

lye was child’s play) but the melting of the salts was awful. Between

the exertion in stirring, the heat of the sun and of the fire, flesh

and blood could hardly bear up. How we ever managed I do not know,

unless it was by keeping at it and aye at it, but on the first week of

October we had filled a barrel with potash, and Reeves took it away in

one of his canoes and sold it in town for us, on the understanding

that we were to take the pay out of his store. He made thus both ways,

and everything he kept was very dear. I have paid him 25 cents a yard

for common calico and a dollar a pound for tea. We could not help

ourselves just then.

I should have told you our potatoes grew wonderfully. There is a

warmth in newly-burned land or a nourishment in ashes, I don’t know

which, that makes everything grow on new land far beyond what they do

elsewhere. The frost held off well that fall, and we lifted our crop

in good order, except a few that were very late planted, which did not

ripen properly. When we landed on our lot, Braxton used his last dollar

to pay the canoemen, and I had just 15 shillings left after paying

the boards we got at Todd’s mill, so all we had to put us over until

another crop would be raised, was the potatoes and what we could make

out of potash. We were in no way discouraged. The work was slavish,

but we were working for ourselves in making a home; the land was our

own, and every day it was improving. The children took to the country

and its ways at once and were quite contented. We were cheerful and

hopeful, feeling we had something to work for and it was worth our

while to put up with present hardship. I remember a neighbor’s wife,

who was always miscalling Canada and regretting she had come to it,

being satisfied with nothing here. She said to her husband one day, in

my hearing, “In Scotland you had your two cows’ grass and besides your

wage sae muckle meal and potatoes, and we were bien and comfortable;

but you wad leave, and dae better, and this is your Canada for you!”

“Can you no haud your tongue, woman,” he replied, “we hae _a prospect_

here, and that is what we hadna in Scotland.” That was just it, we had

a prospect before us that cheered us on to thole our hardships.

I counted not the least of the drawbacks of the bush, the lack of

public ordinances. There was no church to go to on Sabbath, and the day

was spent in idleness, mostly in visiting. Sometimes the young men went

fishing or hunting, but that was not common in our neighborhood, where

the settlers respected it as a day of rest, though without religious

observance of any kind. Accustomed from a child to go to kirk regularly

in Scotland, I felt out of my ordinary as each Sabbath came round. To

be sure, I taught the children their catechism and we read the story of

Joseph and the two books of Kings before the winter set in, but that

did not satisfy me. The nearest preaching was at South Georgetown,

and tho’ I heard no good of the minister I wanted to go. Somehow,

something aye came in the way every Sabbath morning I set. At last, it

was after the potatoes had been lifted and the outdoor work about over

one Sabbath morning in October, a canoe, on its way down, stopped to

leave a message for us. This was my chance, and getting ready I and

my two oldest children went, leaving the others in charge of Braxton,

and, for a quiet man, he got on well with children, for he was fond

of them. I remember that sail as if it were yesterday--the glow of

the hazy sunlight, the river smooth as a looking-glass, in which the

trees, new clad in red and yellow claes, keeked at themselves, and the

very spirit of peace seemed to hover in the air. Oh it was soothing,

and I thought over all I had come through since I left Scotland. Tho’

I could not help thinking how different it had been with me six months

before, yet my heart welled up as I thought of all the blessings

showered on me and mine and thanked God for his goodness. It was late

when we came in sight of the church, for the sound of singing told us

worship had begun. Dundee was the tune, and as the voices came softly

over the water my heart so melted within me to hear once again and in a

strange land the psalmody of Scotland that I had to turn away my head

to greet. Stepping ashore where the church stood on the river bank,

we went quietly in. It was a bare shed of a place, with planks set up

for seats, and there were not over thirty present. The minister was a

fresh-colored, presentable enough man, and gave a very good sermon,

from the 11th chapter of Second Corinthians. While he was expatiating

on what the apostle had suffered, something seemed to strike him, and

he said, “Aye, aye, Paul, ye went through much but you never cut down

trees in Canada.” He spoke feelingly, for he had to work like the rest

of his neighbors to earn his bread. One end of the church was boarded

off, and in it he and his wife lived. I will say no more about Mr

McWattie, for his failing was notorious. When worship was over, it was

a great treat to mix with the folk. That I did not know a soul present

made no difference, for all were free then and I made friendships that

day that have lasted to this. When he heard that I was from the south

of Scotland, Mr Brodie would take no refusal and I had to go with him

across the river to his house, where we had dinner, and soon after set

out to walk home. People now-a-days think it a hardship to walk a mile

to church, but I knew many then who went four or five, let the weather

be what it might. It was dark before we got home, and that night there

was a frost that killed everything. The weather kept fine, however,

until December, and we had no severe cold until the week before New

Year.

I cannot think of anything out of the common that first winter. Our

neighbors wrought at chopping cordwood to raft to Montreal in the

spring, but Braxton could not, for he had no oxen to draw the wood to

the river-bank, so we went on enlarging our clearance. I forgot to say,

that one of our North Georgetown acquaintances gave my oldest boy a

pig in a present, and we managed to keep the little creature alive with

the house-slop and boiling the potatoes that had not ripened well.

We all suffered from the cold, which was past anything we had any

conception of before coming to Canada. Our shanty was so open that it

did little more than break the wind, and water spilled on the floor at

once froze. We had plenty of wood, but it was green, and the logs were

fizzing and boiling out the sap the day long, and it took Braxton quite

a while to learn that some kinds of wood burn better than others. At

first he was just as likely to bring in a basswood or elm log as one

of maple or hemlock. Most of the heat went up the big chimney, so that

while our faces would be burning, our backs were cold. It was worst

in the mornings, for I would rise to find everything solid, even the

bread having to be thawed, and the blankets so stiff from our breaths

and the snow that had sifted in that I had to hang them near the fire

to dry. We kept our health, however, and after the middle of February

the weather moderated. In March a deer, while crossing our clearance,

broke through the crust, and while floundering in the snow was killed

by two of my boys. After that they were on the watch, and ran down and

killed two more with their axes. I salted and dried the hams, and but

for them we would have fared poorly. Having no kettle, we made only

a little maple sugar that spring by boiling the sap in the kailpot.

There was no sugar then like what is made now, it was black and had a

smoky flavor.

The spring was late and wet, which was a great disappointment, for

Braxton could not burn the log-heaps he had ready and make potash,

on the money for which he counted to buy provisions to put us over

until harvest. To make matters worse, provisions got to be very scarce

and dear, so that flour and oatmeal sold at $5 the quintal, and

sometimes was not to be had. One day, when quite out, I went down to

Rutherford’s, who kept a bit of a store, and he had neither meal nor

flour, but went into the kitchen and brought out a bowlful of the meal

they had for themselves. I went over the potatoes we had cut for seed,

and sliced off enough around the eyes to make a dinner for us. In June,

provisions became more plentiful, for the boats had begun to bring

supplies from Upper Canada to Montreal. It was the middle of that month

before Braxton had a barrel of potash ready, and the money it brought

did not pay what we were due the storekeepers. We were kept very bare

that summer, but had a prospect before us in the three acres of crops

which we had got in and which were doing finely.