I can never forget that summer from the fright I had about Ailie.

She was as sweet a wee dot as there was in the world, so loving and

confiding that she made friends with everybody at sight. I was never

tired of watching her pretty ways and listening to her merry prattle.

We were busy one afternoon leaching ashes, when suddenly my oldest boy

asked, “Where’s Ailie?” I started, and remembered that it was over an

hour since I had seen her. “She’ll have gone back to the house to take

a sleep,” I said, and I told one of her sisters to go and see. We went

on again, carrying water, when, after a while, the lassie came back

with the word that she could find Ailie nowhere. We threw down our tubs

and dishes, and I shouted her name as loud as I could, thinking she

was nearby in the woods. No answer came. “She’ll have fallen asleep

under some bush, and doesna hear us,” I said, and, with my children,

we went here and there searching for her, calling her name, and all

without finding Ailie. Braxton was an immovable man, who seldom spoke

or gave sign of what he was thinking about, but when we were together

again and all had the same report, his mouth quivered. Turning down

the wooden scoop with which he had been shovelling ashes, he said,

“We’ll dae nae mae wark till we find the bairn.” This time we went more

systematically about our search, but again it was without avail. It

was a hot afternoon, and the sunshine was so bright it lighted up the

darkest nooks of the forest, but in none we explored was Ailie. When we

met one another in our search and learned not a trace had been found, a

pang of agony went through our hearts. Braxton followed the creek and

looked well along the bank of the Chateaugay. It was not until it had

become too dark to see that our shouts and cries of “Ailie” ceased to

sound through the bush. When we had returned to the house, I stirred

up the fire and made supper. When we sat down, not one of us could

eat. Braxton bit a piece of bread, but could not swallow it, and with

a groan he left the table. We talked over what should be done next,

and agreed to warn our neighbors to come and help at daylight, which

Braxton and the boys went to do. None of us liked to speak of what may

have befallen the child, though we all had our fears, that she had

strayed down to the Chateaugay and been drowned or gone into the woods

and a wild beast had devoured her. Although they had not troubled us,

we knew there were bears and wolves in the swamps to the north of us

and there had been even talk of a catamount having been seen. While

there was hope I was not going to lose heart, and when I besought the

Lord to restore my last born to my arms I thanked Him that the night

was so dry and warm that she could come by no ill from the weather.

I did not sleep a wink that night, sitting at the door and straining

my hearing in the hope that I might catch the cry of my Ailie. Beside

the croaking of the frogs and the bit chirrup of some mother-bird that

wakened in its nest and tucked her young closer under her wings,

I heard nothing. When the stars were beginning to fade I set about

getting breakfast ready and wakened the children. I had no need to

call Braxton. Poor man, though he said not a word, I knew he had not

closed an eye. I insisted on their making a hearty breakfast so as to

be strong for the work before them, and in the pockets of each I put

a slice of bread and a bit of maple sugar for Ailie, should they find

her, for I knew she would be perishing from hunger. Soon after sunrise

the neighbors began to drop in until there was a party of over twenty.

All had their dogs and some of them had brought axes and guns. It was

arranged we should start out in every direction, yet keeping so near

as to be always within hearing. By spreading out this way in a circle

we would be sure to examine every part of the bush, while two men were

to search the river bank in a canoe. We started, some calling aloud,

others blowing horns or ringing ox-bells until the woods echoed again,

and all without avail, for no Ailie was to be found. What could have

become of the bairn? It was as if the earth had opened and swallowed

her up. After beating the bush for miles around we gathered together

at noon, as had been arranged. Not a trace had been found. We talked

it over and over and were at our wits’ end. One lad, new come out and

with his head full about Indians, suggested that one of them might have

stolen her, and, indeed, it looked feasible, did we not know that the

few Indians we had were civil and harmless. Had a wild beast taken her,

we would have found some fragments of her bit dress. I was dumb with

disappointment and sorrow, and had begun to think I would never see her

alive. It was agreed among the men it would be useless to spread out

farther, that we were now deeper in the woods than it was possible for

her to have wandered, and that we should use the afternoon in going

back over the ground we had passed, making a better examination of it.

We went back slowly, stopping to look at every log and going through

every hollow, and, though there was once a shout that her trail had

been struck, it proved a mistake, and our second scouring of the woods

was as fruitless as the first. The sun was fast westering when we drew

nigh our shanty. About four acres back of it there was a waterhole, a

low wet spot which all of us had gone round, nobody deeming it possible

for the child to have put foot upon it. As I looked at the black oozy

muck, half floating in water, the thought struck me, the toddler could

walk where a grown up person would sink, and without saying a word

to the lad who was with me, I drew off my shoes and stockings, and,

kilting my petticoat, stepped in. How I wrestled through I do not

know, but once in I had to scramble as I best could until I reached a

dry spot in the centre that was like an island, and on which there

was a thicket of bushes. Daubed with muck and wringing wet, I paused

when I got my footing. I heard a rustle. I was panting for breath, so

exhausted that I was about to sit down for a little, but that sound

revived hope in me. I peered through the bushes and saw a deer gazing

at me. The creature stared, without moving, which was strange for so

timid an animal. I slipped through an opening in the bushes and there,

on a grassy plot, lay my Ailie asleep, crusted with muck, and with her

arms clasped round the neck of a baby deer; her wee bit face black with

dirt and streaked where the tears had been running down. I snatched

her to my bosom and sinking down I hugged and cried over her like one

demented. Oh, had you heard her joyful cry of “Mammie, mammie!” and

seen her lift her bit pinched mou to mine, you would have cried with

us. The deer did not stir but stood looking on, startled and wondering,

while the fawn lay quietly beside me. This was a mystery, which I soon

solved, for I found the fawn could not move from having a broken leg,

and the faithful mother deer would not leave her young one. The shout

that Ailie had been found soon brought plenty of help, and the first

man that came made to kill the deer, but I prevented him and could not,

ever after, bear him near me. There are savages among us who cannot

see any of God’s creatures, however harmless, in a state of nature,

without trying to take their lives. Sportsmen, indeed! Useless louts,

who would do the country a service were they to use their powder and

shot in killing one another. The fallen tree, by which the deer got

across the swale to its well-hidden nest, was found, and I returned by

it, carrying Ailie, while Braxton took the fawn in his arms, the deer

following. There was much rejoicing at our humble shanty before our

neighbors left, and many attempts to account for Ailie’s wandering to

where she did. She was weak from want of food and I feared she might

be the worse of her exposure, but next day, beyond that she was pale,

she was well as ever. From what we could gather from her, we made out

tolerably plain how her disappearance had come about. While playing

near the house, she saw the deer come out of the woods, jump the fence

of our clearance, and begin to browse on the oats. Ailie seeing the

fawn ran to catch the bonnie creature, when the mother took the alarm,

and bounded back into the woods. In attempting to follow, the fawn

struck one of its hind feet against the top rail of the fence, and

broke the bone. Ailie caught the wee beastie, and held it in her arms,

when the doe returned, bunted her away, and managed to induce its young

one to hirple after it on three legs to its lair in the wee swamp.

Ailie, wanting to get the fawn, followed, which she could do, for they

must have gone slowly. When tired of fondling the creature, she would

have returned home, but could not find the way out, and cried and

slept, and slept and cried, croodling down beside the wounded fawn, as

it nestled under its mother, which, from its concern for its injured

offspring, never tried to drive Ailie away. Well, Braxton set the

broken bone and the leg got strong again, but before it did the fawn

had become so attached to Ailie that it would not leave her, and the

mother, which had watched over her offspring in the most touching way,

had become so accustomed to us and so tame that it did not offer to

leave, running in the woods where it had a mind, and making its home in

a shed my boys put up for her. She was torn to death, two years after,

by a hound that a Yankee neer-do-weel brought in, but the fawn lived

with us until she died of a natural death.

We had a fair harvest that fall, and, when it was got in, we had the

satisfaction of knowing that we would have enough to eat until another

was ready. There being no oatmeal-mill then in the country, Braxton

traded half of the oats for wheat with a neighbor who wanted them for

a lumber-camp. There was a grist mill convenient at the Portage, which

was burned the following summer, after which we had to send all the

way to Huntingdon, where there was a poor sort of a mill. Having no

horse, the bag was carried by Braxton on his shoulder. The want of a

yoke of oxen was so much against our getting on, that we determined

to run some risk in getting one, and saved in every way possible with

that in view. The week before New Year we hired a horse and traineau

from a neighbor, paying him in work, and Braxton went to Montreal

with two barrels of potash. On his way down he had the offer at the

Basin of a heifer that was coming in, and instead of buying the cloth

intended, he saved the money, and took her on his way home. She was

a real beauty, and, out of all the cows we had after, there was not

one to me like her, she was so kindly and proved such a grand milker.

We were all so proud of her that, for a week after she came, we never

tired looking at her, and the children were comforted for the want of

the clothing they needed by having her for a pet. You may not think it,

but the sorest want of our settlement was clothes. When those brought

from the Old Country were done, there was no money to spare to buy

others, and families who had plenty to eat were nigh half-naked, you

may say, and on very cold days could not venture out. I did the best I

could, patching and darning, yet we all suffered much from cold that

winter on account of want of sufficient clothing. Braxton, poor man,

had only a thickness of cloth between him and the weather, yet he never

complained and went to his work in the bush on the coldest days. The

exposure, together with hard work, told on him afterwards and shortened

his life. When the lumber-camps were breaking up, we had a chance of a

yoke of oxen within our ability to pay for, and they were brought home

to the barn that had been raised before the snow came. We had not straw

enough for three head, but managed to keep them alive by cutting down

trees for them to eat the tender ends of the branches. Many a pailful

of browse I snapped off for my bossie that spring. It was well for us

the grass came early.

I do not know that I have much more to tell that would interest you.

The oxen gave us a great start in clearing the land, and that season we

did more than all we had done before. We paid the seignior regularly,

and once we were a little ahead, it was wonderful how well we got on.

Then you must bear in mind, that, as my boys grew up, we were strong in

help, and our place improved quickly compared with the generality of

those beside us. That fall we got another cow and two sheep, so that we

never afterwards wanted for milk or yarn. It was a hard struggle, with

many ups and downs, much slavish work and pinching and paring, but in

course of time we had all we could reasonably wish and were content.

I was long concerned about the schooling of my children, of whom only

two had got any before leaving Scotland. We could not help ourselves

until the fourth year of our coming, when a man, lame of a leg, came

round and told us he was a schoolmaster. The neighbors consulted and

one of them gave a log stable he was not using, which was fitted

up as a schoolhouse, and the man set to work. He could teach his

scholars little, and tried to cover up his deficiencies by threshing

them unmercifully. He was got rid of and another hired, who was more

qualified but was given to drink. They were a miserable lot of teachers

in those days, being either lazy or drunken fellows who took to keeping

school without considering whether they were qualified. In course of

time we had a church at Ormstown, Mr Colquhoun, a proud Highlander,

being the first minister. When we came, there was only one (old Jones)

living where Ormstown stands, now it is a large village, with buildings

the like of which nobody could have expected to see. There has been

a wonderful improvement all over, and, when I first saw it, to have

foretold the country would become what it now is, nobody would have

believed. That the people have improved correspondingly I do not think.

The money, scraped together by the hard work of their fathers, I have

seen squandered by lads who despised the plow, and the upsetting ways

of many families are pitiful to see. Folk in the old times lived far

more simply and happily.

You want to know what became of Braxton. He died 14 years after we

came here. It was in the winter and I thought he had caught cold while

skidding logs in the bush. Any way, inflammation set in, and he died

within a week of his first complaining. We mourned sorely for him. A

more patient or truer soul never breathed, and to the example he set

my boys, who have all done well, I set down much of the credit. We

counted up his share of the property, and, adding £20 to it, sent it

to his sister in England, who was his only relative. I may say all my

old acquaintances are gone, for there are few now on the river who were

there when I came, and I wait patiently to follow them, living happily,

as you see, with Ailie and her children until the Lord is pleased to

call me.

JEANIE MORISON.

CHAPTER I.

Only those who have lived in a cold country like Canada can fully

realize the pleasurable sensations which attend the opening of spring.

The weary monotony of winter, with its unvarying aspect of white

fields, and steady frost, often so intense as to make exposure painful,

gives way to freedom and life, and with some such feelings as stir the

heart of the prisoner, when he exchanges his darksome cell for sunshine

and green fields, does the dweller of Canada hail the time when the

snowbanks disappear and when he can, without wraps, move whether he

will in the genial atmosphere. It was at that period of the year when

the simple incidents I am going to relate took place.

Amid the unbroken forest which covered the county of Huntingdon in

the year 1820, a log shanty stood on the west bank of Oak creek, at a

point where the beavers had by their industry formed a small meadow.

The shanty was rude as might be, of unsquared logs, with a roof of

basswood split into slabs, and a stick chimney. The interior consisted

of a single room, and a small one at that. The inmates were a mother

and daughter. The mother, engaged in spinning, sat in the sunshine

which streamed through the open door, brightening the few pieces of

furniture it fell upon and whitening still more the heaps of ashes in

the open fire-place, behind which smouldered a huge backlog. She had

evidently passed her fiftieth year, while the pressed lips and look of

patient reserve told of the endurance of a lifelong sorrow.

“Dae ye no see or hear ocht?” she asked, looking through the doorway to

the woods beyond, to which she often turned her eyes.

“No, mother,” replied the girl addressed, who was sitting on the

doorstep.

“What can hae come ower him!” said the woman in a low voice.

“Dinna fret; he’ll be here soon,” said Jeanie in a tone that spoke more

of a desire to comfort her mother than faith in her statement.

As if not heeding her, the mother resumed, “He said he would be back

last nicht, and he should hae been. I sair misdoot ill has befaen him.”

It was of her husband of whom she spoke. He had worked all winter for a

party of Americans, who were cutting the best of the timber along the

banks of the creek, and had gone Monday morning to aid them in driving

the logs to the point on the Chateaugay where they were to be formed

into rafts and thence taken to Quebec. His last words had been that he

would, at the latest, be back the following evening and it was now the

third day.

Jeanie strained her eyes and ears to catch the faintest sign of her

father’s approach. The quaver of the grey-bird and the chirrup of the

chipmunk came occasionally from the recesses of the woods, which lay

sleeping in the April sunshine that glorified everything, but no rustle

of branch or cracking of dried stick that would indicate an approaching

footstep. The usually silent creek, now swollen by melted snow, lapped

its banks in pursuing its tortuous course, murmuring a soothing lullaby

to the genial day; and that great peace, to be found only in mountain

recess or forest depth, brooded over the scene. But there, where all

the influences of nature were so soothing, were two hearts filled with

anxious care.

“Jeanie,” suddenly exclaimed the mother, after a long pause, and

staying the whirr of the wheel, “you maun gang and seek your father.

Gae down to Palmer’s and there you’ll find the rafts, and the men will

tell you whether he left for hame or no.”

“But I dinna like to leave you, mother, and I am sure you are taking

trouble without need. He will be here by dark.”

The mother understood the affectionate motive of her child in trying to

make light of her fears, but well knew her anxiety was no less than her

own.

“Say nae mair, my lassie, but gang while there is time for you to get

back. You ken the yarn for the Yankee wife at the Fort is ready and

there is no flour until he gangs there for it.”

Casting one long eager glance down the creek, along which her father

should come, the girl turned in from the door and made ready for the

journey. Her preparations were easily made. The slipping on of her

stoutest pair of shoes and throwing a plaid over her arm, as a hap from

the cold after sunset, comprised them, and bidding her mother not to

fret for she would bring back good news she started. She did not follow

the creek, but struck northward across the peninsula that forms the

township of Elgin, her design being to reach Trout river, as being more

fordable than the wider Chateaugay. The path was, probably, at first

a deer run, which the few who travelled it, chiefly lumbermen, had

roughly brushed. Only one accustomed to the woods could have kept the

track, for, to a stranger’s eye, it differed little from the openings

which ever and anon appeared among the trees. Jeanie, however, was no

novice to the path or to the bush, and she stepped quickly and with

confidence on her way. She had walked about an hour beneath the solemn

gloom of the primeval forest when she saw an opening ahead, and knew

she was approaching Trout river. On reaching it, she followed its bank,

until, with one end grounded in a little bay, she found a large log.

Grasping the first straight stick she saw lying about to serve as a

pole, she pushed the log from its anchorage, and stepping on it as it

moved guided it across the narrow river. From the liability of the log

to roll, such a mode of ferrying is dangerous to those unused to it,

but Jeanie knew how to place her feet and keep her balance and speedily

gained the other bank and resumed her journey. On reaching the place

where the two rivers unite, she could not, despite her anxiety, help

pausing to admire the beautiful expanse of water, which, unruffled by a

breath of wind, lay glassing itself in the sunshine, while the forest,

which rose from its margin on either side, formed no unfit setting.

Presently she saw a ripple upon its surface, and her keen eye perceived

the black head of a muskrat, which was making its way to the opposite

bank. While she followed the rapid movements of the little creature,

there was the flash and smoke of a gun before her, and, while the woods

were still echoing the report, a dog jumped into the water to bring

in the rat, which floated dead upon the current. A few steps brought

Jeanie to the marksman, a tall, wiry man, of rather prepossessing

appearance. His dog had returned and laid the rat at his master’s feet,

who was encouraging him with exclamations of “Good dog! good dog!”

when he caught sight of her.

“Waal neow, who would a thought it? Miss Jeanie herself and nobody

else. How do you do?” And stretching forth his sinewy arm, he grasped

her hand in a clutch that would have made a bear shed tears.

“Oh, I’m well, thank you, Mr Palmer, and my mother, but we’re in sore

trouble.”

“Don’t say the old man is sick?” and an anxious look passed over the

kindly face of the honest Yankee.

“Oh, dear sir, we dinna ken whether he’s sick or well. He left home

Monday morning and was to be back next night and he hasna come yet, and

I’ve come to ask after him and get help to find him if nobody knows

where he is?” As she spoke there was a tremor in Jeanie’s voice, and a

tear glistened on her drooping eyelashes.

“Ha, do tell; this is serious,” and the hunter leant upon his rifle

and gazed abstractedly upon the river, as if trying to conjecture what

could have become of the lost man, until, noting Jeanie’s evident

distress, he aroused himself, and, exhorting her to keep up heart, led

the way to his house.

“You see,” he said, as they picked their way along the rough path by

the river’s edge, “there ain’t much to shoot yet and what there is

ain’t worth killing, but I kinder felt lonesome to be about doors so

fine a day, and I took a stroll, tho’ all I came across was that

mushrat, which, darn it skin, ain’t worth the lead that killed it.”

“If the shooting is poor, the fishing will be good,” said Jeanie, who

humored the spirit of the sportsman.

“Couldn’t be better,” answered Mr Palmer, “I speared seven salmon at

the foot of the rapids last night, and this morning I drew my seine

full of as pretty fish as you would want to clap your eyes on.”

The sound of rushing water told of their approach to the rapids, at the

head of which, on a knoll a few rods to the left, stood Mr Palmer’s

house, which was a comfortable log one, overshadowed by majestic pines.

On entering, they found Mrs Palmer, a rather delicate-looking woman,

engaged in baking. Uttering an exclamation of surprise at the sight

of Jeanie, she wiped her dusty hands and gave her a cordial welcome,

as well she might, for the visits she had received from members of

her own sex, since she had taken up her abode by the Chateaugay,

might have been counted on her fingers without exhausting them. On

learning the cause of Jeanie’s journey, she received the tidings with

the same anxious look as her husband. Evidently both entertained the

worst forebodings, while both had a delicacy in speaking of what they

believed to be the cause of his absence. Neither had seen him, but

the gang of lumbermen he had helped were now forming a raft half a

mile below the house and it was arranged that Mr Palmer should go and

see them while Jeanie would wait. Her hostess resumed her baking, and

Jeanie, feeling the heat indoors oppressive on so fine a day, stepped

out and sat on a log, near enough to keep up the conversation yet

sufficiently far to enjoy the balmy atmosphere and the beauty of the

scene before her. And here, before attempting to describe it, let me

tell what manner of woman Jeanie was. She had that first quality of

a handsome girl, stature--she was tall, with a form instinct with

life--lithe and graceful, which, when matured by age, would become

dignified also. She had no pretension to beauty, beyond what the

liveliness of youth and a sweet temper can give to the countenance, but

still her well-formed mouth, gray eyes, a forehead broad though not

too high, and a wealth of light brown hair went to form a face that

was pleasant to look upon. She had been a visitor at Palmer’s house

before, but its surroundings were still sufficiently novel to engage

her even in her present distracted frame of mind, for, as became a

Scotchwoman, she had a keen relish for whatever is beautiful in nature.

Above, and until directly opposite her, the Chateaugay came sweeping,

with graceful curve, a wide, unruffled sheet of water, until suddenly

it fell over a rocky ledge and became a mass of foaming rapids, which

brattled between banks, covered by trees and overhung by hazel bushes,

until lost to sight by a sharp bend a considerable distance below.[A]

Being at flood height, the rapids were seen at their best, and Jeanie

never wearied admiring the graceful sweep of the smooth water as it

neared the ledge that preceded its fall, or the tumult of breakers into

which, a moment after, it was tossed. It flashed upon her that the

river was, perhaps, to prove a true type of her own and her mother’s

fate,--the even tenor of their life hitherto was about to be suddenly

broken by her father’s disappearance, and then the water, tossed from

rock to rock, broken into spray and driven in every direction, except

upward, would too truly represent their life hereafter. Raising her

gaze to the south, she caught a glimpse, through a gash among the trees

on the opposite bank where fire had levelled them, of a range of smooth

moulded hills, which, blue and soft in the sweet spring sunshine,

brought back to memory the dear old hills of her native land, and joy

mingled with her sorrow.

The afternoon wore away apace and still Mr Palmer did not return. Above

the noise of the rapids Jeanie heard, now and then, the shouts of the

lumbermen as they heaved the logs in forming their raft, and whom Mr

Palmer had gone down to see. Having finished her household duties and

spread the supper on the table, Mrs Palmer sat down beside Jeanie and,

with kindly craft, by talking of commonplace matters, strove to divert

her mind. By-and-by the appearance of a fine spaniel, the same that had

swam to the rat, indicated the approach of Mr Palmer, who, when he came

up to them, leading his eldest girl, a chattering child, seemed in no

hurry to answer the questioning eyes of the two women.

“Blessed if the dog don’t scent something,” said the worthy man, as he

watched the animal creeping to a clump of underbrush to the right.

“Bother the dog,” exclaimed Mrs Palmer, “what did the men tell you?”

“Waal, they ain’t jest sure, you know, but they guess ’tis all right,”

and as he drawled out the words slowly and reluctantly, Jeanie could

see that he was far from thinking it was all right.

“Oh, sir,” she said, “you are a father yourself and you are as dear to

your child as she is to you. Tell me the worst, and be done wi’ it.”

“Don’t take on, Jeanie; it may be all right yet. Your father helped

to tote the logs to the foot of the rapids, and left them, well and

strong, to walk home last night. I rather conjecture he lost his way,

but he will be home by this time.”

This was all Mr Palmer seemed disposed to tell, and, hoping for the

best, she tried to share in her host’s affected confidence as to her

father’s safety, and followed him in answer to his wife’s call “That

supper was ready.” A capital cook, and having a larder to draw from

replenished by the gun and rod of her husband, Mrs Palmer, in honor of

her guest, had spread a table that contrasted painfully with the meagre

fare to which Jeanie was accustomed, and made her think of the mess of

boiled corn of which her mother would then be partaking. After supper,

the canoe was launched, and bidding farewell to her hostess and her

little girl on the river’s bank, Jeanie stepped in, when, propelled by

the paddle of Mr Palmer, it began steadily to stem the current.

Who that has undergone the agony of sorrowful apprehension has not

noted how every trifling incident that may have occurred during that

period has become imprinted indelibly upon the memory? The watcher

by the sick-bed, over which death hovers, is puzzled how, at a time

when the mind is absorbed with one thought, the perceptions should be

so sharpened as to note trivial events and objects, down to the very

furniture and pattern of the wallpaper, which on ordinary occasions

leave no trace upon the memory. On that April evening Jeanie’s mind

was laboring under this intensified acuteness, and while brooding

continually over her father’s probable fate, to her dying day she

remembered every feature of the scenery she was now passing. The smooth

flowing river, swollen and discolored by the melted snow from the

hills, hemmed in on either bank by a thick growth of trees, many of

which, as if enamored with the beautiful sheet of water by which they

grew, bent over it until, in their leafy prime, their branches almost

kissed its surface. Now, though leafless, their tops were glorified by

the setting sun, which filled the still air with the lambent blue haze

which distinguishes the evenings of early spring in Canada. Keeping to

the Chateaugay at its union with Trout river, the canoe stole silently

beneath the shadow of the overhanging trees until the mouth of Oak

creek was reached, when Jeanie stepped ashore to pursue her way on foot

to her home. Before bidding her goodbye, Mr Palmer paused and said:

“Now, you keep up a good heart for whatever may happen, and we’ll be up

tomorrow to search the woods. Give that to your mother and--God bless

you.” Without giving her time to say a word, he pushed his canoe into

the stream and speedily glided out of sight, leaving Jeanie standing on

the bank perplexed by what he had said and holding the basket he had

thrust into her hands, which contained a loaf of bread and a string

of fish. With a heavier heart than ever, she began to trace her way

homeward by the creek. Once in that lonely journey she thought she saw

her father walking ahead of her, and once she thought she heard his

voice. She called out and paused to listen for a reply. The only sound

that reached her was the dismal croakings of the frogs. Knowing that

her imagination was deceiving her, she hurried on and, when she caught

the first glimpse of light gleaming from her humble home, it outlined

her mother’s figure seated on the doorstep waiting her return.

“You hav’na found him, Jeanie?”

“No, mother; and he hasna come hame?”

“What can hae come ower him!” exclaimed the mother, as she sank into a

seat by the open fire-place.

It was remarkable that in their conversation no conjecture was hazarded

by either as to the probable fate of the missing one. Both, plainly,

entertained the same painful surmise, which they were alike ashamed to

breathe. They sat by the glowing backlog for many hours, hoping against

hope that the wanderer might return, until Jeanie overcome by fatigue

sought her bed. Once she awoke during the night, thinking she heard a

voice. She listened in the darkness. It was her mother wrestling with

God on behalf of her father.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] These rapids were known to old settlers as “Palmer’s rapids.” The

quarrying of them for building purposes has greatly changed their

appearance.

CHAPTER II.

Early next day Jeanie and her mother saw a short, stout man emerge from

the woods. He was a stranger to them, but his aspect indicated he was a

lumberman. He had a towsy head of reddish hair and a matted beard and

whiskers of the same hue.

“A pleasant day, ma’am,” he said, in a voice so soft and insinuating,

and contrasting so strikingly with the roughness of his appearance,

that Mrs Morison was somewhat startled. “It is, indeed, a fine spring

day,” she replied.

“And the water is high, ma’am, and the rafts are getting away

finely--oh, very finely,” and the man stood complacently eyeing the

mother and daughter, and rubbing his hands.

“Hae ye seen ocht o’ my husband? Ye’ll hae come about him?”

“Oh, my dear ma’am, don’t fret; take it coolly and comfortable like.”

“I see ye ken aboot him; oh, dinna play wi’ me, but tell me at once.”

Not in the least discomposed, the little man, in more oily tones than

ever, replied, “Well, well, ma’am, there is no denying it, accidents

will happen, you know. You shouldn’t be supposing the worst, and taking

it easy, for”--

Before he could finish his sentence there was heard a heavy trampling

in the woods, and soon there came from beneath their cover half a dozen

men, four of them carrying a burden laid on two poles. They came in

silence to the door, when Mrs Morison saw their burden was her husband.

She snatched away the red handkerchief that covered his face, a glance

at which showed her he was dead. She gave a shriek that resounded

through the forest, and fell senseless upon the corpse.

The career of the dead man may be told in a few words. He had been the

son of a small farmer in the south of Scotland, a strapping, lively

fellow, who won the good graces of the daughter of a draper in the

neighboring village. Her parents opposed her keeping company with him,

not merely because his circumstances were indifferent but because

his habits were not of the steadiest, he being fond of convivial

gatherings, at which, more than once, he had got overcome by drink.

Their opposition seemed only to strengthen their daughter’s affection

for the free-hearted, good tempered young fellow, and the upshot

was, that one morning she was not to be found, and before evening

they learned she had been married. The imprudent match resulted as

the parents had anticipated; the young man was unequal to the task

of supporting a wife and his habits did not mend. Moving to a mining

village, he got work as a laborer, and out of his scanty earnings a

large percentage went into the till of the whisky shop every Saturday

night, so that his wife, to eke out a living, had to exert herself to

do something also. Quietly and uncomplainingly she took in sewing,

washed, or spun, as opportunity offered, to earn an honest shilling,

and did what lay in her power to keep things decent. Children came but

none lived to maturity save Jeanie. The village was unhealthy, its

fumes and murky smoke were not favorable to childhood, typhus was a

regular winter visitor, and, more than all, the narrow means at her

disposal afforded not the necessaries of life in the abundance children

need, so, to her heart-sorrow, one after another was taken away. Time

passed, and her father died, leaving her a small legacy, and with

this she determined they should emigrate. She fondly thought were her

husband removed from his boon companions, were all his old associations

broken, and he transplanted into a new sphere, he might reform. Often

had she striven with him, often had hope kindled in her bosom that

he was going to keep the good resolutions he so often formed; always

doomed to bitter disappointment. To emigrate was the last chance, it

seemed to her, and for Canada they accordingly sailed. Deplorable to

relate, on the day of their arrival at Quebec her husband got drunk

with several of his fellow-passengers who went to take, as they termed

it, a parting glass, and before he got over his spree the greater part

of their little stock of money was gone. Instead, therefore, of being

in a position to go to Upper Canada and take up land, as intended, he

had to engage at Quebec with a lumberman who was getting out masts

and square timber on the Chateaugay, and thus it came that, two years

before the opening of our narrative, he had made a home, a poor one

as we have seen, in what is now the township of Elgin. Altho their

privations were great, Mrs Morison did not regret the change from

the dirty, squalid, mining village in Scotland to the lonely woods

of Canada. Her husband had fewer opportunities of getting drink and,

on the whole, they lived happily. Possessing a superior education

herself and having moved before her marriage in respectable society,

she brought up her daughter very differently from what might have been

expected from their circumstances, and Jeanie, despite her home-spun

dress, had acquirements and manners that qualified her to move in any

station of life. As already stated, on the Monday morning Morison had

gone to assist in running logs out of the creek. On the evening of the

succeeding day his employer settled with him for the season’s work,

and, in addition to the small balance of wages that was coming to him,

gave him a few pieces of pork to take home and, fatal parting gift, a

bottle of rum. He left the raftsmen in high spirits, an able-bodied if

not very active man, taking the track that led to his humble dwelling.

What followed no human eye witnessed. He never reached his home, and

the searching-party that morning had discovered his body a few yards

from the creek, stretched upon the ground, with his face immersed in a

pool of water--a pool only an inch or so in depth, left by the melting

of the snow and gathered in a cavity formed by the roots of a tree. Had

he, when he stumbled and fell, moved his head ever so little, he would

have breathed and lived. The more than half empty bottle, found in his

stony grasp, showed he had been too overcome to stir a hairsbreadth,

and there, in a basin of water, so small that a squirrel could have

leaped it; so shallow that a robin, in pruning his wings, could have

stepped through without wetting a feather; this stalwart man, before

whose axe the loftiest pines had fallen and whose vigorous oar had

stemmed the rapids of the Chateaugay, had ignominiously met his death,

within hail of the faithful wife and loving daughter who were anxiously

waiting his return. Jeanie, in going home the preceding evening,

had unconsciously passed within a few paces of the body which once

contained her father’s spirit. On finding it, damp from the exposure

of a day and two nights, the searching party had made the body as

presentable as possible, and sent ahead one of their number to break,

as gently as might be, the news to the wife and daughter. With what

success he, who was chosen on account of his smooth tongue, acquitted

himself, the reader knows.

So long did Mrs Morison remain in her swoon that once the dreadful

thought darted through Jeanie’s mind that she was not going to recover,

and at one fell swoop she was to be deprived of both parents. She did

not cease her exertions, however, and while bathing the rigid temples

she rejoiced to see the flush of returning animation. Slowly did Mrs

Morison raise herself to a sitting posture, and looked in a dazed

manner, as if wondering why they were there, at the rough lumbermen

grouped around her, who stood in silence and with the awkwardness of

people who were anxious to help but did not know how. Unconsciously

she moved her glance from one to the other until it fell upon the

body of her husband. Recollection returned in a flash, and drawing

the inanimate form to her lap she pressed the bloated and discolored

features to her lips.

“Oh, Willie,” she exclaimed, unconscious in her overwhelming passion of

sorrow that there was a listening ear, “lang did we ken ane anither and

braw and gallant were you ance; my pride and joy. Sair hae oor trials

been and muckle hae ye been misguided, but aye faithfu and true to me.

Oh, that I had been wi’ you; oh, that ye had given me your last kiss

and deed in my arms! There hae been them wha despised you, wha tauld me

to leave you; little did they ken o’ the love that bound me to you. Oh,

that we should hae partit thus!”

Here she paused, and turning her eyes upwards she slowly and reverently

said: “Merciful God, as in your wise decree you have been pleased to

bring this affliction upon me, grant, in your pity, that I tarry not

long behind him whom ye hae taen awa.”

The solemn petition calmed the tumult of her mind, and reverently

disposing of the body, she rose to her feet and said modestly--

“You will excuse me, freens, for taking on sae sairly afore you, but I

couldna help it; this misfortune has come so sudden. I thank you for

what you hae dune, and, gin it be your pleasure, as you can do nae mair

noo, leave us alane and come the morn to bury him wha’s gane.”

The red-whiskered man was about to make a voluble reply, when he was

cut short by a tall lumberman, in whose eye there glistened a tear,

with the remark, “Yes, ma’am, we are at your service and mean to do all

we can for you.” Then, looking at his comrades, he said, “Let us go,”

and turning abruptly he led the way, leaving the mother and daughter

alone with their dead.

CHAPTER III.

It is true in the moral world as in the material that after a storm

comes a calm. The agony of suspense, the wild burst of passionate

sorrow had swept over them, and the morning succeeding the sad

discovery found mother and daughter composed and resigned. The worst

was now known, a worst there was no remedying, and so they bowed,

without needless fret or repining, beneath the trial. The sun had risen

in an unclouded sky and his beams were warmer than on the preceding

days, and as they came pouring down unstintingly on the turbid waters

of the creek and the uplifted branches of the forest, it seemed as if

summer was nigh and buds and leaves and green sward would speedily

succeed the birds whose noisy concert ushered in the rosy dawn.

Everything had been arranged in the humble shanty with all the deftness

of order-loving hands; on one side of it, beneath a white cloth, was

the corpse. Mrs Morison was seated on the chair at the window; Jeanie

sat at her feet on the doorstep.

“Wasna father a braw man when you first foregathered?”

“He was the handsomest lad in the countryside; a very pleasure for the

ee to rest on. Little dae they ken what he was like that didna see

him then, and a kinder or truer heart couldna be. O, Jeanie, I just

worshipped him when we were lad and lass.”

“But your father didna like him?”

“Dinna put it that way, Jeanie. He liked him but he saw a faut in him

that spoiled a’. I was wilfu. I said Willie would gie up the company he

keepit when he was merrit, and that it was guid-fellowship and no love

o’ the drink that enticed him. I dinna say that I regret what I did,

or that my lot hasna been as guid as I deserved--God forgive me that I

should repine or say an unkindly word o’ him that lies there--but young

folks dinna lippen to their parents in choosing partners as they ocht.”

“Hoots, mother; when a lad or lass hae found their heart’s love, what

for suld father or mother interfere?”

“Easy said, Jeanie, but think ye there is ony body in the wide world

loes son or dochter as a parent does? They are as the apple o’ their

ee, and his or her happiness is all they seek. Dootless there are

warld’s worms o’ parents who only look to the suitor’s gear and wad

break off the truest love-match that ever was gin he were puir. I dinna

speak o’ them, for they are out o’ the question. But take parents by

ordinar, who only seek their bairns’ welfare, and the son or dochter

wha disregards their advice in choosing a life-mate will hae mickle to

repent o’.”

“I dinna see hoo that is,” said Jeanie, “for surely their marriage

concerns only themselves?”

“True in a sense, Jeanie, that as we mak oor bed we maun lie on’t.

Think ye, though, o’ a parent’s experience, that nae glamor o’ love

blinds their ee, that their haill concern is for their bairn’s

happiness, and they may see fauts in the would-be partner o’ their

child that can only result in meesery. Young folks shouldna think

their parents are obstinate or stupid when they oppose their marrying

this ane or that ane. In maist cases they hae solid reason for their

opposition, and the son is foolish that winna get his parents consent

before he gangs too far and the dochter silly indeed who says Yes

without taking counsel o’ her mother.”

“Oh, but that wadna dae always,” replied Jeanie, deprecatingly, in a

tone as if such a course would rob love of its romance.

“Come, noo, Jeanie, tell me what better adviser can a dochter hae than

her mother, and hasna the father a richt to hae some say in a match

seeing that, if it disna turn out weel, he may hae a useless son-in-law

to sorn on him or, in his auld days, hae his dochter or a tawpy of a

son’s wife come wi’ a wheen bairns to seek shelter in his hame? Na,

na, the first commandment wi’ promise requires obedience in this as

in ither callings o’ life, and happy is the wedding whaur the true

love o’ the young couple is crooned wi’ the blessings (given without a

misgiving) o’ their parents, for there is, then, a reasonable prospect

that the match will prove what a’ should be--a heaven upon earth.”

“Mightna the parents be mistaen, mother?”

“Aye, and so might the lad or lass, and far mair likely that the young

should err than the auld. Had I taen the advice my father and mother

pressed on me, advice that came frae their lifelong experience and

their affection for me, it wad hae been different--no that I regret

what has happened for mysel but for you, Jeanie, that maun grow up in

this wilderness, and for your brithers and sisters wha hae gane to a

better land.” And here, as the remembrance of the years of poverty and

of wretchedness caused by her husband’s intemperate habits flashed upon

her, she burst into tears.

“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Jeanie, as rising and standing beside her she

clasped her bowed head to her bosom, “dinna tak on so. I wadna hae had

it otherwise, and wad suner hae bided wi’ you than had the queen on the

throne for my mother. We hae been very happy for a’ that has come and

gone, and sae will we yet. Were it to part us, I wadna marry the best

man in a’ Canada; I will aye be wi’ you and will aye be obedient to

your will.”

“I ken that, my bairn, but,” said the mother, raising her tear-stained

face, “promise me this--and it is a promise that him wha lies there wad

hae backed, for weel he kent his ain faut--that, nae matter hoo ye may

be drawn to him, you will never marry a man that likes his glass.”

“I promise,” said Jeanie with simple solemnity, and drawing up her

graceful figure to its full height, she, as if anxious to break off the

subject, turned to get a wet towel, with which she wiped her mother’s

face, “for,” as she remarked, “ye maun be decent when the folk come.”

It was nigh noon before any of the visitors made their appearance. In

the then unsettled state of the country news spread slowly even when

messengers were sent out expressly to carry it. Everybody came that

heard of the melancholy occurrence, for in those primitive days, when

only the young and healthy inhabited this section of country, deaths

were so rare that a funeral was regarded as an important event which

nobody missed. Straggling in from different points they came in twos

and threes, except the lumbering-party with whom the deceased had been

connected, who appeared in a body marching up the creek, carrying the

coffin--a rude box of unplaned boards--with Mr Palmer leading. Two

features in the assemblage were noticeable, one being that hardly a man

among them had a coat, the other the fewness of the women. The men,

great brawny fellows in home-made shirts and pants fastened by belts,

gathered in clusters in the clearing to exchange news and talk over the

circumstances attending the event that had brought them together, while

the women went into the house. The sun was sinking fast towards the

west before the preparations necessary for the burial were completed.

When the word went round that the grave was ready, one by one they

fyled into the house to take a last look of the face of their late

neighbor, after which the lid of the coffin was nailed down. There was

no clergyman to be had at the time and among those present there was no

one inclined, even if capable, to conduct religious services. If the

solemn observances of such occasions were absent, those present had not

come unprepared to maintain a custom which in those days was universal

in Canada, and, for all the writer knows, may still be in the Mother

Country--that of passing a glass of liquor before lifting the coffin.

A man, with a jar in one hand and a tin cup in the other, went round

the company, tendering the filled cup to each, which it would have been

bad manners to refuse and which nearly all emptied before returning.

When all out of doors had been helped, the man, a well-meaning, kindly

fellow, stepped into the shanty to regale those inside. Thinking

it good manners, he pressed to where Mrs Morison was sitting and,

deliberately filling the cup to the brim, tendered it to her first.

Mrs Morison gave him a piercing look. “What!” she exclaimed in a low

voice, so emphasized by deep feeling that every word sunk into the

minds of those present; “What! Do you ask me to take that which has

murdered my husband?”

“Take a taste, ma’am,” said the red-whiskered man, who was in the room,

“it will do you good.”

“Do me good!” she re-echoed, “then it will be for the first time in my

life. That do me good that took away the bread for lack of which my

bairns, noo saints in glory, perished! That do me good that robbed my

husband of his usefulness and good name; that made him fit for only

orra jobs and to be despised as a drunkard! That do me good the love of

which supplanted his love for me, for it was the stronger o’ the twa or

wad he no hae left it alane for my sake? That do me good that filled

his bosom with remorse, which hurt his health, and, last of all, has

taen his life! Oh, that it hasna caused the loss of his soul; that,

in the moment of his passing breath, he found time to seek acceptance

with God for the Redeemer’s sake! Take it away,” she screamed with the

energy of one who shrinks at the sight of a snake, “take it away, and

may the curse of the widow and the orphan rest upon them that make and

sell it--wha tempt decent men to destruction in order that they may

have an easy living.”

Abashed at so unexpected a reception, the man continued to stand

stupidly before her, holding the cup and jar. Seeing his puzzled look,

Mrs Morison, who had recovered her composure, quietly said, “I ken

you mean it kindly, and sae far I thank you, but gin you think o’ it,

you will see that the bottle may be your own worst enemy and they are

safest and happiest who leave it alane. As a favor, freen, I ask you no

to offer it in this house.”

A few minutes afterwards the coffin was borne out of doors, when four

lumberers lifted it on their shoulders, and, leading the straggling

procession, walked to the grave, which had been dug on a knoll close to

the creek, the only spot that could be found convenient sufficiently

free of trees and their roots. When the coffin was lowered, each man

lifted his hat for a moment, there was a pause, and then the grave was

filled in.

With thoughtful kindness those who came had brought some gift of food

to replenish the widow’s larder, and now, while all the rest departed,

the lumbermen remained, until sunset, chopping firewood and putting

the house and its surroundings to rights, so that, before they lay down

to sleep that night, Mrs Morison and Jeanie included in their prayer

thanks to God for having so bountifully provided for them.

LOST IN THE WOODS.

You have heard of my passing a night in the bush, and want me to tell

you about it. When we came to Hinchinbrook, which was in July, 1831,

the shanty my husband put up did not stand where this house is, but

on a ridge at the end of the lot. For the first two years we had no

neighbor nearer than half a mile, for though the lots on each side of

us were granted, nobody was then living upon them. From morning to dark

I saw nothing but the bush that encircled our house and the little

clearance of blackened stumps. Oh, but it was lonely! It was worse than

a jail, for the prisoner gets a blink out of his cell window of the

wide prospect without, and of houses and people, but I saw nothing for

several years but trees, and trees, until our clearance so extended

that it met that on the east side of our lot, and all at once we, one

fine day, came in sight of a neighbor’s house. The second Spring we

were on the lot, my husband left to help to take a raft down to the

Basin, leaving me alone with Henry, who was then the baby. He expected

to be back in four days, or by the end of the week at furthest. If it

had not been that I had so much work to do I would have cried my eyes

out, it was so miserable to be left alone in the woods, and William had

never been away so long before. The four days passed and Sabbath came,

but he did not. I got very anxious, and all day could scarcely keep my

eyes off the spot at which he would come out of the bush, and where the

track from the river crossed our lot, and at night I could not sleep

a wink, thinking every moment I heard his footstep. Once I was sure I

heard him moving outside. I got up and opened the door and called his

name. There was no answer, and it was so dark I could not see a rod

off. Lighting a bit of pitch pine at the fire, I held it up to look

again, when there was a patter of feet and something bounded by me. It

was sugar-time and there were a few trees tapped around the house. The

noise I heard was a few deer drinking the sap out of the troughs. I

knew not what to do. I wanted to go in search of William, but how could

I leave our small stock? They might starve before I got back, and that

would ruin us. It happened Monday afternoon, just when I had determined

to go over to the nearest neighbor and see if I could get some one to

go and enquire for my husband, though I knew it would be useless, for

every man and boy old enough had gone with the rafts. I was wrapping

baby in a shawl, when the door darkened and a strange voice bade me

good day. It was that of a young lad from the second concession. He was

on his way home, and had a message from William. In running Dumouchel’s

rapids the raft had bunted on a stone, throwing her crew off their

feet. In falling, William’s oar had struck his left arm and broken it.

I thanked God it was no worse. He told the boy I was not to be anxious,

that he felt so well he hoped to be able to leave for home in a few

days. I questioned the lad, and from what he told me, I guessed my

husband was worse than he let on. My resolution was made; I would go

and see him. The lad said he had to go home first, but promised to come

back next morning and tend the stock until I returned. Before going, I

got him to fell a few saplings for the young beasts to browse on their

tops, for the fodder was nearly done. Then I prepared for my journey;

cooking enough to keep the lad while away, and baking some cakes to

take to my husband. It would be past 5 o’clock in the afternoon when

I was ready to leave, but I considered I would be able to reach the

Chateaugay before dark, and once on its banks I would be safe to get

a night’s rest. With baby in my arms I started brave enough, but had

not gone many acres in the woods until I felt I had acted rashly. I

had gone over the path only a few times and never alone, so that I was

not so well acquainted with it as I thought I was, and, from the snow

having newly melted, it was not as plain as usual. I pressed on until

I felt that I had walked so far that, if on the right track, I should

have reached the river, while I had not even come to the Outarde. The

sunlight had long left the treetops and the stars had begun to glimmer,

when I gave it up, convinced that, likely in going to one side to pass

a wet spot, I had left the track, and that I was lost in the woods.

Assured I had lost my way, I knew it would be madness to walk farther,

and so, while I could see, I picked out a hemlock knoll, and choosing

a big hemlock that had some cedar bushes growing near, I sat down

beneath it. It was not very cold, though in the clearances I daresay

there was frost. Taking a cake out of my pocket I made my supper. Baby

was very good and lay asleep in his shawl. Wrapping him more warmly in

the long plaid I had around my shoulders, I clasped him to my bosom

and, so wearied was I, that I fell asleep. I awoke with a start. I

thought I heard some one calling. I listened and the sound soon came

again. It was the cry of a wolf at some distance. Another answered

from some other part of the woods, and another and another. You have

noticed, on a calm night, how, if a dog barks, every dog within hearing

answers; it is the same with wolves, only their cries are more varied,

ranging from a deep howl to a whine like that of a child in pain. I

shuddered for my babe, who still slept, and, kissing him, resolved I

should die before the brutes would reach him. For a long time I sat

and listened, until the cries died away, from the beasts apparently

hurrying to some distant point in pursuit of their prey. I again slept,

how long I do not know, but was awakened by something warm stroking

my cheek. It was our dog licking my face. I had shut him in the house

to be a watch on it, but he had broken out some way and, scenting my

steps, had overtaken us. I was so desolate and lonesome, and so glad

to have Collie’s company, that my heart leaped with happiness as he

cuddled down beside me and would not give over licking my hands and

face for very joy. I should be ashamed to tell it, but, sir, a good dog

is better than a false friend, and Collie was a most faithful beast.

After that I slept with confidence, and it was good daylight when I

awoke, cold and stiff with my first and last night’s rest in the woods,

but refreshed and confident. I would not touch more of my cakes, for

I wanted them for my husband, so, thanking God for preserving me so

far, I went on my way, baby crowing at the sight of Collie, as he

gamboled around us with yelps. Marking as well as I could from the

way his rays fell, where the sun rose, I went north, for I knew that

in that direction I would soon come across the Outarde. Sure enough,

I had not gone a quarter of a mile, when I came upon it, flowing red

and full, for it was high water. Knowing I was safe, and that I would

quickly come upon one of the settlers by its banks, I hurried on in

great spirits, and came out on John Hughes’ clearing, and was speedily

seated by their blazing log fire at breakfast. My troubles were now

over, and I saw that, instead of going north, I had wandered to the

east. A little boy went with me to Strachan’s, where I crossed the

Chateaugay, and resuming my walk got to the house, near Ste Martine,

where my husband lay, in the afternoon. It was well I went, for his

hurt had brought on a slight fever, and though the habitant’s family

were kind, they could not nurse him as I did. These were anxious but

happy days, for William was overjoyed to have me beside him, and I was

glad to be of service to him. In ten days Dr Syme told me he would bear

the journey, and getting a cast in one of Reeves’s canoes as far as

the Portage, we were safe back in our own house before night, to find

everything better than we expected. It was a drawback William’s arm,

for it was some time before he could do hard work with it, but we got

over that and many another backset, and, if we are now well-to-do, we

earned all we’ve got.

AN INCIDENT OF HUNTINGDON FAIR.

A LOST CHILD.

It was wearing on to three o’clock on the first day of the fair, and

the crowd was at its height. At a corner of the main building, where

the throng was thickest, stood a child, a girl of some four summers,

sobbing, not loudly or obtrusively, but with her face buried in her

pinafore. The passers-by, intent upon their own pleasure, took no

notice of her, until a gaunt, elderly man halted in front of her with

the query, “What are you crying for?” “For mama,” said the child

raising her tear-stained face from behind her pinafore. “Don’t you

know where she is?” “No,” sobbed the little one, “she’s goned away,”

and here her grief broke out afresh. Attention being thus directed

to the child, the standers-by grew interested. Among them were two

young ladies in rather loud costume. “Guess she’s lost,” remarked

one of them. “Want to know?” queried the other, “Ain’t she sweet?”

“Some; should say her mother don’t know much; such a looking hat.”

“You mightn’t do better, Ethie.” “I’d be sick if I couldn’t.”--“Well,

what’s to be done?” asked the man who first noticed the child. “Has

anybody seen anybody looking for a little girl?” Nobody had, and then

suggestions as to what to do were volunteered. “Ask her name?” was one

of them. “What’s your name, sissy?” “Roose,” sobbed the child. “And

where do you live?” “With mama.” “And where does she live?” “At home.”

“That’s not the way to ask her,” exclaimed a brawny young man, whose

lowest whisper would startle a horse, and bending over her he asked,

“How did mama come to the fair?” “With me and Toby.” “Is Toby your

father?” “No,” said the child, smiling through her tears, “Toby’s a

dear little dog.” “Did mama walk to the fair?” “We’s drove in a wagon

and Toby too, ever so long ways.” “What’s the name of the place you

came from?” The question was beyond the child, who simply shook her

head. “Don’t bother her,” interjected a bystander, “get your wagon and

drive her round the ground and the mother will see her.” “I can’t very

well,” said the man of the loud voice. “My horse has got the gorum,

and I want to watch the sheep judges.” “Well, take her home with you;

you’ve neither chick nor child.” At this a laugh rose, and suggestions

as to what should be done, each more senseless and impracticable than

another, began again. To send her to Grahamie as lost baggage, to seat

her in the centre of the horse-ring, at the head of the show-house

stairs, with the band, or among the fancy articles, where her mother

would be sure to go, were among the more reasonable. Each one was

clear that it was the duty of somebody else to exert themselves to

find the mother, and each one was equally clear he was not called upon

to undertake the task. And so precious time was slipping, and what to

do with the child remained undecided. At this juncture, a short and

somewhat stout woman broke through the ring. “Hech, what’s a’ this

about? A lost bairn, say ye.” Bending over, she lifted the child, and

sitting down on a bench pressed her to her bosom. “My bonnie doo, and

hae ye lost your mammie! Wha ocht ye?” The child, with staring eyes,

answered not. “You might as well speak Greek,” grimly remarked the

gaunt man. “Eh, what’s that! Do you think she disna understan the

English lang’age? Na, na, thae bonny blue een are no French. An hoo

did you lose yer mammie, my pet?” “Mama gave me penny to get candy,

and Toby ran after other dog, and I tried to catch Toby but he runned

a long way and was bad, and--and--I couldn’t find mama or Toby,” and

the recollection of her misfortune renewed her grief. “Eh, ma wee bit

lady,” exclaimed the good-hearted woman, as she clasped the sobbing

child more closely, “but hoo are we in this thrang to find Toby or

yer mither either. Hech but her heart will be sair for the loss o’ ye.

Will na some o’ ye gang and see if ye canna fin a woman lookin’ for her

bairn, instead o’ gapin there at us like so mony gomerils.”

“If you’ll give me ten cents I’ll go,” said a pert boy.

“Ha, ha, my man, ye’ll be a Conservative; ye want an office.”

“There’s the president,” remarked one of the bystanders.

“What! yon black-a-vised man wi the bit red ribbon? Hey, Mr Praseedent;

come yont: I want yer advice.”

“What’s this; what’s this?” asked the president.

“Jist a lost bairn, an hoo to fin the mother o’t I dinna ken.”

“Couldn’t be in better hands,” said the president.

“She micht be in waur, tho I say’t mysell. But that’s no what I’m

drivin at. Hoo am I to get her mither!”

“Oh, that’s not hard to do. You have seen a lamb lose its mother, but

did you ever see the ewe that failed to find her? You just sit where

you are, and the mother will come along.”

“I’ve seen the ewie seek her bit lammie ower knowe and heugh an never

fail to find the wanderer, but what could she do were as mony auld

tups thranging roun as are here? Na, na; yer comparison winna stan,

Mr Praseedent. Jest tell me what I’m to dae, an no be stanin’ there

twirlin yer whisker.”

“I’ll tell you what to do. Take the child home with you; she is tired

and not fit to stay here longer. The mother will be sure to come to the

office, and I will know where to send her. I’ll take your address,” and

he pulled out his notebook.

Glancing at the child, which had fallen asleep on her bosom, the woman

kissed the peaceful little face, and replied, “that’s gude advice.

Everybody kens me. I’m Mrs Crowdie, and I live on the ----concession

of Hinchinbrook, and if ye want to ken mair o’ me ye can speer at that

decent man, Mr Herdman, yonner, wha lifts my taxes, and as oor waggin

will be ready, I’ll gang noo. Sae gude day to ye.”

Tired with the day’s fatigue and grief, the child did not wake until

the wagon halted at Mrs Crowdie’s door, when, seeing everything new and

strange, she cried a little for her mother, but was easily soothed,

and, on supper appearing, she forgot her little sorrows in satisfying

her appetite. Though Mrs Crowdie had much to do “in settin things to

richts,” as she termed it, about the house, and scolded the man-servant

for “thinkin mair o’ what he saw at the fair than o’ his wark,” she

found time to lavish much attention on the waif, so curiously left on

her hands, and beguiled the smiles to her cheeks by kindly arts. When

it grew dark, she cried for her mother, but accepting Mrs Crowdie’s

promise that “she would see her the morn,” and that she would “let

pooshack sleep with her,” she lisped her artless prayer at her knee

and, laid in bed, dropped into the land of Nod with her arms around Mrs

Crowdie’s big black cat.

A NEEBOR LADDIE.

Little Roose was up by times next morning, and thought it grand fun to

help Mrs Crowdie to milk, to feed the poultry, and to get breakfast

ready. Everything was new to her, and enjoyed with such a zest as to

show that it was her first taste of country-life. To keep her company,

Mrs Crowdie had sent word to her neighbors to let their son come and

play with her, and by-and-by Johnnie made his appearance, and the two

had a rare time of it. It was in the afternoon, when, tired with play,

and to rest and enjoy the pieces Mrs Crowdie gave each of them, they

snuggled down behind a clump of bushes in the orchard.

“When I’m a man, Roose, I’ll have sugar on my bread like this all the

time.”

“When you’re a man, will you have a horse?”

“Yes; two of them and whiskers too.”

“And a farm like this?”

“A bigger farm than this, an’ a big house an’ a buggy, an’ pigs an’

sheep an’ hens.”

“And may I come to see you?”

“You’ll milk the cows and make butter.”

“Will it be long time ’fore you’re a man?”

“When I’m growed; two or three year; I’m six now.”

“How do cows make butter?”

“My, don’t you know? It ain’t the cows that make the butter, it’s the

girls.”

“And will you show me when I’m big?”

“Yes, an lots o’ things.”

“My mama has no cows.”

“Ain’t she! Why, my dad has lots o’ em and a bull, too.”

“I’d be ’fraid.”

“O, you are not a man like me. I could fire a gun an shoot a bear.”

“Has God cows?”

“Why, He makes em, an the horses, an the elephants, an every thing.

Don’t you go to Sabbath school?”

“No.”

“My! I went when littler than you, an learnt heaps o’ things, an got

raisins and candy at Christmas.”

“Without a penny?”

“Gimme for nothing.”

“My.”

“I was to have spoke a piece but got afraid.”

“I wouldn’t be ’fraid.”

“Oh, that’s nothing; you’re a girl.”

Here the conference was broken by Johnnie’s offering to show where

the ground hogs kept house, and off he and his companion trotted to

a remote stone-pile, and did not turn up till supper time, when they

burst in upon Mrs Crowdie with the appetite of hawks, and the girl so

full of the wonders she had seen that her tongue never rested until she

became sleepy. When laid away for the night, Mrs Crowdie sat in the

gathering gloom to think over what she should do. The day had passed

without any one coming to enquire for a lost girl, which very much

surprised her. So far as her own inclinations went, she would rather

nobody ever came, but she knew that somewhere a poor mother’s heart

was in agony over the loss, and she resolved that, next morning, after

breakfast she would drive to Huntingdon to find out if there had been

any enquiries.

A SHADE OF MYSTERY.

With many injunctions to Roose, that she was to “be a guid bairn till

she got back, an no go near the soos or the wall,” Mrs Crowdie next day

betook herself to the village, where she arrived in due course and went

first to the office of the president to find out whether he had heard

aught. Entering she spied through the net-work that surmounted the

counter a man in his shirt-sleeves leaning over a desk writing, with

his head turned away from her.

“Hey, man!” No response.

“Whar will I find your maister?” No response.

“Whatna ticket is this?” as her eye here fell on a card hung to the

wire-netting, and she spelt out slowly, “THIS--IS--MY--BUSY--DAY. Fegs,

by the look o’ him I should say it is. Hey, man!” No response, the man

of the big ledger calmly continuing to write.

“Eh, puir chiel!” exclaimed Mrs Crowdie, “he maun hae a hard maister or

be dull o’ hearin,” and she thereupon rattled on the counter with her

umbrella.

“Oh, were you wanting me. Want to pay your church seat, eh?”

“What na kirk? St Andrew’s, say ye? Na, na, I dinna gang there. Dod!

You dinna need to have a seat in ony kirk, for there are a’ kin o’

bodies that ca’ themselves preachers rinnin aboot. Says I to ane that

pit maist impertinent questions to me about my saul--an us Scotch folk

dinna show our hearts to every Jock and Tam--My man, ye pit me in mind

o’ a finger-post, ye pint the way ye dinna gang yoursel. Ye see, I kent

ocht o’ him.”

“That’s a good one,” exclaimed the man of the pen as he rubbed his left

arm.

“Gin I had my way, there wad be a riddle afore every college door

to try the coofs wha wad wag their heids in a poopit. I ken o’ some

chuckie heads it wad hae thrown aside.”

“Not a bad idea. And what can I do for you? You’ll want an organ?”

“Me an organ! I’d suner tryst a parritch pat.”

“It’s a nice thing to have a little music, and the young ladies soon

learn to play.”

“I’se ken ye noo. I saw ye at the show. Ye can blaw a horn but ye canna

blaw my lug. I want to see your maister.”

“What name?”

“My name’s Mrs Crowdie; kent by her neebors as ane that pays as she

buys an is due naebody.”

“Oh, yes, I have a memorandum. The boss left word you were not to

trouble yourself; it would be all right.”

“I’ll gang hame we nae such assurance. I have come ane errand to see

him and I wull see him.”

“We had a fine show, Mrs Crowdie?”

“Whaur’s your maister?”

“What did you think of the flowers?”

“Whaur’s yer maister?”

“Oh, it’s the boss you want.”

“Ay, an I’ll no gang till I see him.”

Calling a chubby-faced lad, he sent him in search, and the desired

gentleman soon entered.

“And how are you to-day, Mrs Crowdie?”

“I’ve naething to complain o’ except o’ sin an a touch o’ the

rheumatics.”

“And what can we do for you to-day?”

“Ye ken weel my errand, an I see by yer man ye’ve something ye dinna

want to tell me. Wha’s bairn is she?”

“We’ll speak about that by-and-bye.”

“We’ll speak about it noo.”

“Is the little girl well?”

“The lassie’s weel an I’d be laith to part wi her did I no ken there

are they wha hae a better richt to her. Noo, tell me; what hae ye

learned about her folks?”

“There have been some enquiries; her people know that she is safe.”

“Wha are they? I’ll gang an see them.”

“There’s no need. You go home and you’ll hear from them.”

A good deal of conversation followed, but Mrs Crowdie could get no

particular information about the parents, further than that they were

satisfied she was in safe hands, and they would call or send for their

child in a short time. Forced to be satisfied with this, she returned

home, and when Roose threw her arms round her neck in welcome, she

could not forbear the secret wish that the parents might never come.

There was some mystery and she hoped that it might result thus. She

watched the child pattering about during the afternoon, listened to her

prattle, and helped to amuse her, and when the evening gathered, and

the sun set beyond the forest, leaving the clouds burning in crimson

and gold, she sat with her in her lap. Something in the peaceful

scene stirred up old memories, and, with thin and quavering voice,

the old woman began the 23rd psalm. To her surprise, the child chimed

in, knowing both the words and the old world tune Mrs Crowdie sang

them to. “Wha taught ye that, ma dawtie?” she asked, as finishing the

psalm, she hugged the child in closer embrace, the moisture glistening

in her eyes. “Mama,” said the child. “She maun be a guid woman, and a

Presbyterian, too.” And clasping the child, Mrs Crowdie sat thinking in

silence and did not move into the house until it grew chill, when she

said “the bairn micht catch cauld.”

THE MYSTERY IS CLEARED UP.

The section of Hinchinbrook in which Mrs Crowdie lives is a very

pleasant one to look upon; the landscape being relieved from monotony

by low knolls and ridges which break the wide intervales. In the

middle of September, the bush, that runs as a straggling and somewhat

ragged fringe over the ridges, was still green, with only here and

there a branch or tree whose brilliant red foretold the coming glory.

The day was bright and warm, the sun’s rays being chastened by the

faint smoky haze that softened the distant features of the landscape.

Her work being over until milking time came round, Mrs Crowdie took a

seat by the open window and began knitting. Her little charge had gone

to watch a preposterous hen, which, after being given up as having

furnished supper to a fox, had appeared that morning clucking with joy

over the solitary chicken that followed her; the yellow hairy little

thing a source of delight to the child. While Mrs Crowdie’s fingers

moved actively with the needles, her thoughts were wandering away to

the past. The advent of the child had stirred her nature and wakened

memories, she knew not how, that she had stifled so long ago that

she thought they were dead. And to judge by her face, they were not

pleasant memories. Casually raising her head, she was astounded to see

a woman standing at the door intently watching her; a comely woman,

neatly dressed.

“What’s brocht you back?” demanded Mrs Crowdie, breaking silence, “I

told you I was dune wi’ you; that gin ye had made yer bed, you could

lie on it.”

“O, mother!”

“Na, ye needna beg; gin that useless man ye wad marry in spite o’ me,

has failed to provide for you, you maun look for help anither gate.”

“I have not come to beg; we have made ends meet so far.”

“Ay, by your wark. A fauchless, smooth-tongued haveril; hoo he threw a

glamor ower ye I ken na.”

“You are too sore on him.”

“Ower sair! A useless being that wad talk an flee round the kintry,

an dae onything but wark. To think that ye wad prefer sic na ane to

yer ane mither, you ungrateful hussy. But its aye the way; the best o’

women get the lavins o’ men.”

“It’s not for me to listen to such talk of my husband,” said the

daughter, coloring.

“A bonny husband! Merry’t ye, thinking he could hang up his hat in my

hoose and sorn on me. My certie, I sorted him! Gang back to yer husband

an wark yer finger-nails aff to make up for his laziness. You made your

choice, an I’m dune with baith you an him.”

Resentment struggled in the breast of the young woman with affection;

it was for a moment only; her better nature triumphed.

“I have not come, mother, to ask of you anything but your love and”--

“An what?” asked the mother, in a voice shrill from suppressed emotion,

“Did I no nestle you in my bosom an care for you as dearer than my

life? When, ane by ane, your brithers an sisters gaed awa an you were

left the ae lam oot o’ the flock; when God in his providence took your

faither to Himsel an I was left alane, it was you that gied me heart to

wrastle wi’ the warl, an I watched ower you an thocht you wad be a prop

to my auld age. Oh, hoo could ye have the heart to leave me?”

“I love you better than I ever did, mother, but you wouldn’t think much

of me as a wife were I to say I did wrong in marrying.”

“Aye, there it is; the shuffling creature wi his sleek manners that cam

between you an me.”

“Oh, mother, leave that alone. I am sorry to have vexed you today.

I never meant to trouble you, until you saw fit to send for me or I

thought you needed my help.”

“An what has brocht ye, then?”

“I’ve come for Ruth.”

The old woman sank back in her chair in speechless astonishment. At

last she whispered, “An she’s your bairn! I thocht there was something

aboot her that was familiar to me: that explains it a’. She’s yerself

ower again when ye were a bit toddler. O that thae days were back

again! An hoo did ye lose her?”

“It’s six years since I left you, mother, and my heart wearied among

the Yankees to see dear old Huntingdon again. I watched the Gleaner

when the show was to be, and arranging to be away a fortnight I came

with Ruth and stayed with cousin on the river. I saw you at the show,

but you did not see me. In the crowd I lost Ruth. I was here and there

seeking for her, when a man told me he had seen a little girl, dressed

like mine, in a wagon that drove towards the village. I followed and

found he was wrong. Thinking she had driven home with our friends, I

hastened to cousin’s, but she was not there. What a night I spent! Next

morning I went back to the show grounds, and was struck dumb when the

president told me where she was. I explained it all to him. He was

very kind and said if I would leave it in his hands he would manage it;

when you came in he would put you off for a day or two. Last night he

sent me word things had worked well, and I was to go out to you myself.

If there is any plot about it to bring us together without your will,

it’s none o’ mine,” and sinking before her mother she buried her head

in her lap and wept.

What Mrs Crowdie would have done; whether her resentment would have

returned and she again have driven away her daughter, God alone knows,

but at this juncture the patter of little feet was heard on the gallery

and Ruth, with her pinafore full of golden-rod, came shouting, “See

what I have got.” One glance at the tearful face upraised to see

her, and there was a glad scream of “Mama.” Clasping her child and

grandchild in her arms, Mrs Crowdie broke down. “It’s the Lord’s wark;

nane save Himsel could hae brocht us thus thegither, an I’se no fecht

against His will. By a lost child I’ve found my ain, an we’ll never

pairt. Ay, my bonny Ruth, I’m your grannie, and ye’ll bide we me, an

help me tak care o’ the hens an the turkeys, and the lave.”

“And, papa.”

“I’ll thole him for your sake; maybe I have wranged him in my

prejudices. We’ll sen for him.”

“An Toby, too?”

“That’s cousin’s dog, Ruth,” said her mother, smiling in her joy.

“Ay, Ruth,” said Mrs Crowdie, “we’ll get the dowg too, and we’ll let

byganes be byganes and begin a new life an ther’ll no be a happier

family in a’ Hinchinbrook. Eh, hoo true’s the Scripter in mair senses

than ane. An a little child shall lead them. Hech, but this’ll no dae.

There’s the nock chappin five, an the coos are comin up the lane, an

the fire’s to kinle. Let’s be steerin an get the wark dune an then

we’ll hae supper ance mair thegither.”

THE SUMMER OF SORROW.

LOOKING FOR THE BOOK.

You want to see the little buk I have? An who tould you about it?

You’ll do it no harm. Maybe you won’t get the chance. It’s not the

likes of you that should have it. You’ve driven from Huntingdon on

purpose and sure I won’t disappoint you. I didn’t ax you to come, did

I? You’ll print it. Yis, what suits you: laving out all that tells how

we poor Catholics were used in Ireland. Honor bright, you’ll print

every word of the little buk. Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t,

but it is not to everybody I would give a reading of my poor nevy’s

book, and, if you plaze, we’ll say no more about that same. Well, then,

I might tell you what I saw myself at the favor sheds. Did you ever

know anybody who seen a ghost like to talk about it? I tries to forgit

what I saw and heard, an thank nobody that brings me in mind o’t. Come

now, I’ll tell you a bettor shtory than about poor women and childer a

dyin by the score of favor an strong men alayin aside them too wake

to git thim a cup o’ wather. An its a thrue story, which is more than

can be said about some you’ve prented. Whin I wint to William Bowron to

buy my lot, I paid my money down for’t in goold. He wrote my ticket for

the lot an’ whin he hands it to me, says he, Now you’ve got a farrum,

my man, you’ll want a cow. Thrue for you, says I, I had always a cow in

Ireland an my father afore me. Confound it all, says he, then you must

have one in Canada; I have a heifer that’ll suit you. Gittin aff his

chair, he placed his stick across his back and hooked his elbows over

it, an tuk me into his yard, where he pointed to a beauty av a crathur.

How much? says I. Three pounds, says he, Done, says I, an’ puttin my

hand in my pocket I pays him the money in his fisht. Sure the baste

wud have cost tin poun in Ireland. Confound it all, says he, ye’re a

dacint fellow; come in an have a bite to ate. An afther I had my dinner

I started for my farm, adrivin my springer afore me through the woods,

feelin proud as Punch over my bargain. It was not until I stood afore

the bit shanty I had got raised, that the thought came on me all at

once, that I had nothing to feed the baste. Och, it takes an Irishman

to jump before seeing where his feet will fall. Well, I held my whisht,

and my woman and her good mother comes out and falls admirin the baste.

There was only another cow in the settlement; wan ould Armstrong had.

Sure, I cries, won’t the nabors be invying us! Thim here long afore us

an widout a four-footed baste, barrin pigs an dogs an cats, an here,

the firsht month we come, we have an illigant heifer, new come in.

“She’s a beauty, sure,” says my wife’s mother, “an as like the wan I

sould when I left the Ould Counthry (bad luck to the day I left it) as

a red wan can be like a black; lave her to me, I’ll look afther her.”

Indeed an I will, says I, for if you don’t she’ll die, for sorra a bite

hev I got for her. An so it was, the ould woman took charge and tended

her as if she had been her child, herdin her in the woods an atakin

her to the creeks where she could get a bellyful, a drivin her home

against nightfall. It divarted the ould woman, who had all the time

been lamenting laving Ireland, and sarved us, for me wife an mysilf

were workin hard in makin a clearance to get in a few praties. It was

on in August that wan night the ould woman an the cow did not come

home. She’ll hev lost her way, says my wife to me. Not at all, I tells

her, she knows the woods as well by this time as ever she did the bog

of Dorroghmore. Thin, why’s she not here? asks she. Och, she’ll have

shtrayed furder than ordinar an daylight has failed her. Niver throuble

yer mind; she’ll be here with the sun tomorrow. I was more consarned

than I let on, but what could I do? It was dark an there was no use

going looking for her in the woods wid a candle, seein’ we hadn’t wan.

My wife couldn’t get a wink o’ sleep, an sot at the door, shouting

whiniver she thought she heard a rustlin in the bush. The day broke

an the sun climbed up until he was high enough to look over the tree

tops at us an say Good mornin, an nivir a sign o’ the ould woman or

the cow. We waited an waited, expectin ivery minute to see her, until

I got afeard, an wint an tould the nearest nabors. They were consarned

at the news an agreed if she did come back afore, they would warn the

settlement an ivery man jack o’ thim would turn out next mornin to luk.

An they did; och but there was a crowd ov them, some wid guns an some

wid horns an some wid pitchforks. There was grain awaitin to be shore,

but not a sowl of mankind stayed away. What’s that you say? They’d be

Arangemen? What ilse was there in the sittlemint then? We didn’t talk

in thim days about what makes strife, but lived as frindly as nabors

could, helpin wan another, an niver askin what you were. Well, it was

a fine day, tho hot, an aff we started, watchin for foot tracks an

shoutin an blowin horns an firing shots, expectin the ould woman would

hastin to us on hearin where we were. It was niver a bit o’ use. Hours

wint by an we thravelled miles on miles an niver a sign. Whin we found

a track we soon lost it, for the woods were cut up by slues. It was

agrowin late whin a few o’ us met to talk it over. “We’ve gone north

an east an wist,” says Sam Foster, the ouldest settler ov us all an

a knowledgable man, “an havn’t found her or the cow. That shows me

she has crossed the swamp to the south an gone towards the lines.” We

agreed to this rasonin an shtarted aff for the swamp, which was as

dirthy a puddle o’ black wather an green skum as there was in Ameriky.

Sam was our guide, or we might av been thryin to crass it to this day.

He knew where it was narrowest an by creeping along fallen trees we

reached the ridge beyant, an hadn’t gone half a mile afore we struck

the footprints of an ould woman an a cow. How did I know it was the

footprints ov an ould woman? Hould yer whisht or I won’t be atellin

you any more. It was a blessin we did, for it wad soon hev been too

dark to have followed them up. I tell ye, we forgot our tiredness an

hunger, an hurried on in great spirits, an in half an hour Sam shouts,

“There she is,” apointin through the trees. I shouts Whuroo an dashes

ahead o’ them all an in a minit I had the ould woman in my arms an the

cow a lookin on as innocint as if it had niver played thricks whin a

calf. The saints be praised ye are not kilt and ded, I cries, as I

hugged her, for sure, though she was ould an wrinkled an bint, she was

the mother o’ my darlin wife. Ded I wad hev been, says she, cryin wid

joy, but for the crathur, an niver ben waked or buried. By this time

the rist o’ the min kem up an awl sat down to hear the ould woman’s

shtory. She tould us how, from the drouth, the cow found little to pick

and kept amovin on and on until she was floundering in the swamp, an

whin they got on solid land sorra the wan of thim knew where they were.

“How did ye keep alive?” asks a man, “for ye are spry and hearty.” “I

wunna tell ye,” says she. “Two days and two nights in the bush,” says

another, “an you not hungry: it’s a mysthery.” “Hould yer whisht,” says

another, “it’s a miracle: there be good people in thim woods as well

as on the hills ov Ould Oireland.” It was growin late an there was no

time for more talk an we shtarted for home, an, bedad, the ould woman

bate us all wid the nimbleness she tripped through the bush an over the

logs. Whin we got home, an glad my wife was when she hugged her ould

mother, an the nabors left, I axed again how she had kept body an sowl

so well together in the bush. “I wunna tell ye,” says she again, an aff

she wint to bed. I tould all to my wife an axed her to find out, and

by-and-bye she got it as a great saycret--the ould woman sucked the cow

for food an purticted hersilf from the cowld ov the night by sleeping

aside her.

“Are you done, grandpa?”

I turned, a girl stood behind us, having come unnoticed.

“Yis, yis; what is it?”

“Supper is ready, and I’ve been waiting ever so long to tell you.”

“Come,” said the old man to me as he rose, “an have a bite.”

I followed and when after tea I rose to take my horse for my homeward

journey, my eyes must have expressed what courtesy kept my tongue from

again asking. “Och, the little buk, is it. Well, I’ll trust ye wid it.”

Leaving the room he returned with what looked like a greasy and much

handled pass-book. “Take care of it,” he exclaimed with emotion, “an

don’t keep it long.” Placing it in my pocket we parted.

HOW THE BOOK WAS GOT.

On retiring to my room that night, I examined the book given me with

such reluctance and read every word of it before going to bed. I found

it to be the diary of an Irishman who had left his country during the

famine. In the ship on which he embarked for Canada typhus fever broke

out and the incidents of the horrors of the voyage and of the equal

horrors of the quarantine sheds on being landed at Grosse isle were

described with a simplicity and directness that alternately moved me to

tears and filled my bosom with indignation. Next day I set to work to

copy the diary. On considering the matter I saw it would be necessary

to learn somewhat of the writer, who he was, whether he survived the

plague, and if he did, where he was now. The first day I could get away

from duty found me on the road to interview the old man a second time.

On restoring to him the book I expressed freely my indignation at the

conduct of the landlords, of the ship-agents, and of the quarantine

officers, and my pity for those whom they oppressed. My words seemed to

be unlooked for.

“Begorra,” said the old man, “I didn’t expict this aff ye. I tuk ye for

wan that thought anything good enough for the likes of us.”

Explaining my wish to publish the diary I asked him to tell me what he

knew about its writer.

“Sure he was my nevy, an I will tell ye awl about him.”

Though it was mid-October the day was warm and the sun unpleasantly

hot, and the old man suggested we should go to the orchard, where he

could tell me what he knew without interruption. It proved a long

interview for I had many questions to ask and the substance of his

statement, though not in his words, I will now give as an introduction

to the diary.

It was in the year 1847 myself and wife were behind the house cutting

hay. There was no mowing-machine those days; no, not even a scythe

could be used because of the stumps, and we were picking the locks

of hay out atween the stones and stumps with our hooks. It was a hot

day and we had been at work since sunrise, so our backs were tired

enough, but we could not rest, for there was much to do and we had no

help beside ourselves. We were working hard and fast, when a voice came

ahint us that made us start.

“Uncle, wanna you look roun at me?”

There stood a girl, with a bundle in her right hand. By her figure you

might say she was 17 or thereabout; by her face she was an old woman,

for the bones were sticking out of the tight drawn skin and her skin

was a deadly grey, with black streaks above and below the eyes. My

first thought was the colleen was demented.

“God save you kindly,” says I, “but why do you name me uncle?”

“I am your brother’s child.”

You might have knocked me down with a feather, I was so astonished.

“What! me brother Jerry?”

“That same,” answers she in a wake voice.

“Where is he?” shouts I, throwing down my hook. “Lade me to him. Niver

a line did he send to tell us he was laving Ireland, but welkim he and

his as the flowers in May to the best I have.”

The girl didn’t stir; she seemed numbed and dead like and answered in

her hollow voice, “He’s dead thim three weeks.”

“God save us all,” I shouted, “you are mad my colleen, and ye’re mind’s

awandering. My brother Jerry is in Ireland with his wife and the

childer, and ye’re mistaen when you call me uncle.”

“No, no,” she says to me, “ye’re my own uncle for I axed at the house

next to you. My mother, my father, my brothers and sisters are wid the

saints in glory,” and wid that she lifted her eyes and crosses herself.

“When and where?” I shouted in desperation.

“They died ov the ship favor, part are buried in the say and part at

the favor sheds.”

With those words the truth of all she said burst on me and I staggered,

for my head swam, and I had to throw myself down on the meadow, but

my wife rushed past and clasped the poor child in her arms, “I’ll be

mother to you, and, God help us, it won’t be on our account if the tear

o’ sorrow come again to your eye.”

The poor thing didn’t respond as you might expect, but sank on my

wife’s bosom and looked about with that stony stare of hers. My wife’s

hot tears were raining on her face, when she whispered, “Wad ye give me

a bite to eat?”

Then we saw it all. The girl was starving. I caught her up in my

arms--she was no heavier than many a baby--a bag of bones--and I ran

with her to the house, crying to my wife to hurry and get something

ready. Had ye seen her look at the food as my wife brought it out of

the cellar, with the eye of a wild beast, you would have shivered.

“Draw in,” says I, “it’s coorse, but it is the best we have, an

there’s plenty av it.”

“Is the mate for me?” she asks doubtful like.

“Surely,” says I.

“I havn’t put a tooth mark on mate for three years,” says she simple

like.

I reached her a rib of cold boiled pork and she smiled for the

first time, and sucked it as a child does the orange it wants to

have the taste of as long as possible. When she had eaten as much

as my wife thought safe, she took and laid her on our own bed, and

willing she was, for she was clean beat out, and went to sleep when

her head touched the pillow. Then we had a talk. She had come from

the fever sheds and might give the disease to the children, who had

gone berrying, so I goes, as agreed on, and meets them, tells them

of their new cousin from Ireland, who had come to us sick, and takes

them to stay with a neighbor for the night. Next morning I off to the

hay before sunrise and worked excited like till the sun got high and

overpowering, when I says to myself, “I’ll take a rest and go and

see my brother’s child.” She was sitting at the door, where the hops

clustered round her, and looked another crathur. The fearsome glare of

hunger in the eye was gone and there was a glint of color in the cheek

as she rose to welcome me. “You don’t think me mad today, uncle?” she

asks me. “God forgive me,” says I, “for the word--.” With that she puts

her hand over my mouth. Oh she was the kindly crathur, and now that

she was clean and fresh dressed I could see would be a handsome lass

when there was more mate on her bones. My wife had been looking for my

coming and had the table spread, and after we had eaten we sat again in

the shade at the door and as I smoked my pipe Ellen told her story. It

was, more the pity, a common enough one in those days. The failure of

the potatoes had left my brother unable to get enough for his family to

eat let alone pay the rent. On the back of the hunger came sickness and

when things had got to be as bad as they could, the agent comes round

and tells him if he would give up his houlding and go to Canada the

landlord would forgive him the rent, pay the passage-money and a pound

ahead on landing at Quebec. He took the offer as his neighbors did and

went to Dublin, where they found a ship waiting for them. They were

not out of sight of land when the fever broke out and the children,

one after another, took it, and three died at sea. When quarantine was

reached they were all sent ashore, and there the rest of the children,

saving Ellen, died, with the father and mother. When the fever left

her she was put on board a steamer for Montreal, and got sorra a bite

from the hour she left until she landed, though it took the boat 36

hours. Faint and sick she was hurried ashore and when she made for

the city a policeman turned her back and she sat down on the wharf,

wishing to die. By and by a man comes along and by his dress she knew

he was a minister, though not of our sort. He spoke to her and she

told him she wanted to get to me, and showed my address on a bit of

paper she carried in her bosom. He read it and saying to follow him,

led to a steamer lying in the canal. He sought out the captain and

told him to take the girl and land her at Beauharnois, and the captain

promised he would to oblige the minister and refused the dollar he

offered. The stranger handed it to her with the words, “I must leave

you, for others are perishing,” and slipped away before she could thank

him. That evening she was landed at Beauharnois and when the steamer

left the wharf for the Cascades she felt more lost than ever, for she

heard nothing but French, and not a word she understood. She spied

a man putting bags of flour in a cart with a face that she thought

was that of an Old Countryman. She went up to him and he answered

her in English, or rather Scotch, for I know him well; he lives near

the Meadows. She told where she wanted to go. “You’ll be ane o’ thae

emigrants,” says he, “an may hae the fever.” “I’ve had it,” says Ellen,

“an am well again.” “Aye, but ye may give it to ither folk.” At this

a Frenchman came up to speak to the man and on seeing Ellen put his

hand to his mouth and drew back. “Louis,” says the Scotchman, “tak

this lassie hame wi you and give her a nicht’s lodgin.” Louis shook his

head. “I’ll pay you, man,” shouted the Scotchman. “No, no,” said Louis,

making a sign of horror, “me not let her in my house.” “You are a’ o’

ae kirk and suld be kind to ane anither.” Without replying, Louis left.

“Weel, lassie, gin they’ll no gie you cover in this town, ye maun gae

wi me,” and with that he went into the tavern at the head of the wharf

and came back with some bread in his hand for her. He spread his horse

blanket on the bags for her to sit on and off they started. It was a

long drive in the dark, for the horse walked every step of the way, and

Ellen fell asleep. On waking at the rumbling of the cart ceasing, she

found they were standing in a farm-yard. The night was clear but cold,

but she had not felt it, for the Scotchman had tucked his big coat

around her. He told her he dare not take her to the house for fear of

infecting the children. Lighting a lantern he showed her to a corner

of the barn, where she lay down to sleep, while he went to unyoke his

horse. On waking in the morning she stepped into the yard, where she

found the Scotchman unloading his cart. “I’ve been waitin for you,”

says he, “an dinna tak it unkind if I say you maun go at ance on yer

way. Were my naebors to hear o’ ane wha has been sick o’ the fever bein

here, my place wad be shunned.” Putting something to eat in her hand he

bade her follow him, and pointed out the road she was to take for her

uncle’s place, and by observing his directions had succeeded.

“An so there’s only yirsilf left?” asks my wife.

“Av our family,” says she, “but unless he’s dead since I left, there’s

my cousin Gerald in the fever sheds at quarantine.”

Gerald was my sister’s only child and I had heard after her death he

had gone to Maynooth to be a priest.

“Do you tell me my nephew, that rode on my knee the day I left Ireland,

is in Canada? Why did he not come wid you?”

Then she explained; told us of what he had been to the sick and dying

and how the day before she left he had been stricken himself. She

wanted to stay with him, but he told her to hasten to her uncle and

if he had a mind he might come and help him; she could do no good to

stay. I jumps up. “I’ll go,” I cries, “and will bring him back wid me

here safe and sound.” As I said that I caught my wife’s eye so pleading

like, not to go. But I did. I got my neighbors to look after my hay and

off I started next morning, bright and early, to catch the stage at the

Potash. When old Mr Oliver heard my errand, he told me to go back to my

family, but my mind was made up. When my own brother was adying I was

in comfort. I was determined my nephew would not suffer like him and

me so near. When the stage came along I jumped into a seat and before

darkening I was in the city. All the talk there was about the fever,

and how the poor creatures were dying by the hundred in the sheds at

Point St Charles. Everybody was in mortal dread of infection and the

police had orders to watch that none of the emigrants got past the

wharves or out of the sheds, but some did, and they were hunted down

and taken back. I kept my whisht as to my errand and listened in the

bar-room of the tavern to one story after another, that made the blood

run cold to my heart. After an early breakfast next day I left the

tavern and walked down to where the steamer sailed for Quebec. It was a

beautiful morning and I thought it the prettiest sight I had seen for a

long time, the blue river sparkling in the sun and the islands and the

other shore looking so fresh and green, with the blue mountains beyant.

It was going to be a while before the steamer was ready, for there was

a pile of freight to put on board, and I walked up a bit to look round

me. In turning the corner of a shed I sees lying on the ground a young

lad with a girl leaning over him. I went up to them. “What’s come over

you, my boy, that you be lyin on the ground?” asks I. Never a word from

either. I went close up and I sees his eyes closed and his face white

as death, with his head resting on the girl’s lap. “God save us, what’s

wrong?” Never a word. “Can I do anything for you?” I says, placing my

hand on her shoulder. She lifted up her head that was bowed down on the

young man’s, oh so slowly, and looked at me, her face white and sunk

like. “No,” she whispered, “he’s adyin.” “Dyin like this in a Christian

land,” says I, “I will get help.” I ran back to where the crowd was and

tould a policeman. “They’ll be escaped imigrants,” says he, “and must

be sent back, the villins,” and off he comes with me. I led him to the

place and he flourished his big stick, shouting, “What div ye mean,

coming among Christian people agin orders?” I caught his arm. “Don’t

touch them; he’s dyin,” for I heard the rattle in his throat. We stood

aside for a minute or so, there was a gurgle and a drawin up of the

legs, and all was over. “Oh, my brother, my brother, hev you died afore

me,” moaned the poor girl as she tighter clutched his body. “Come wid

me,” I said, stooping over and trying to lift her, “I am Irish like

yersilf, and will spind my last dollar if need be to bury your brother.

Lave him, and I will take you where you will find friends.” I could not

loosen her hould on the body. The policeman said he would go for the

ambulance and left me. I stroked her hair, I talked to her as if she

had been my own daughter; I tried to comfort her. Never a sign or a

word. There was a sound of wheels and I looked and saw the ambulance.

The men came and I grasped the girl to lift her off the corpse. I

caught a look at her face--she was dead too. The ambulance men said

that was nothing, that fever patients dropped dead every day without

a sign. I looked at the poor colleen as I helped to lift her into the

ambulance beside her brother’s corpse, and I knew it was not of the

fever alone she had died, but of a broken heart. Och, och, to come to

Ameriky to die on the quay. “Drive to the cimitry,” says I, “and I will

pay all expinses,” trying to get up beside the driver. “Have you lost

your sinses,” says he, “they wad not bury them in the cimitry; they

go to Point St Charles, and if yer wise ye’ll tell nobody you handled

faver patients and go about your business.” Wid that he cracks his

whip, and rattles aff at a great rate. “Well, well,” I said to myself,

“at ony rate they will be united in burial as they were in life and

death,” and they rest in the field where a big stone tells more than

3000 were buried. I turned with a heavy heart to the steamer, which

was ringing a warning bell to get on board and lying down on a pile of

bags fell asleep. It was afternoon when I awoke and soon after we were

at Three Rivers, where I went ashore and got something to eat. When we

had left it a while a steamer hove in sight, coming up the river. We

crowded to see her in passing. It was a sight that sunk like a stone on

my heart. Her lower deck was chuck full of women and childer and men,

all in rags, and with faces as sharp as hatchets from starvation, and

most all of them white or yellow from the fever. She passed between

us and the wind and the smell was awful. A sailor told me steamboats

passed every day like her on their way from quarantine, and never a one

reached Montreal without a row of corpses on her upper deck for burial

and a lot of sick to be carried to Point St Charles.

It was late in the night when we tied up at Quebec and I took the first

lodging-house I found. When I paid the landlord next morning, I asked

him how I would get to Grosse Isle. “Ye’re jokin you are,” says he,

“people lave it, they don’t go to it.” I tould him my errand. Says he,

“Go home, it’s no use; your nevy is dead by this time, an if he isn’t

he’ll be dead ony way. It’ll be the death of yoursel to go.” No, says

I, I have come awl the way from Huntingdon to save the boy and I wunna

go back widout him. Whin he see I was detarmined he told me how hard

it was to get to the island; that the city people were afraid of the

infection and watched everybody going and would let none come from

there. He pointed to the landing-stage where the quarantine steamboat

lay and I went to it. There was a sentry at the end and when I made to

pass him he ordered me back. “I’m going to quarantine,” says I. “The

divil ye be; shtand back; ye can’t pass widout an order.” I was pleadin

wid him to let me by whin a voice behind says, “What is all this

loud talk about?” I turns and sees a tall man in black, straight as a

hickory. “Yer rivrince, this man wants to go to quarantine and has no

permit.” “My good man,” says he to me, “you are seeking to rush into

danger if not certain death. The sentry does a kindness in turning you.”

“I have a good raison for wanting to go.”

“It would need to be in risking your life and endangering the safety of

the community by bringing back infection. What may be your reason?”

I saw he was a gentleman and his kind voice won me. I told him all.

“What is your nephew’s name?”

“Gerald O’Connor.”

“Has he been stricken! They did not tell me when I was last there. He

has been one of our best helpers. His only hope lies in instant removal

on convalescence and since you have come for that purpose, I shall see

you have opportunity.”

With that he says to the sentry, “This man is my assistant today,” and

putting his arm in mine he walks me on to the boat, where even the deck

hands saluted him. When he walked away with the captain, I axed who he

was. “Dat am Bishop Mountain,” says a Frenchman. “Bedad,” says I, “they

shpoiled a fine cavalryman when they made a preacher ov him.”

The order was given to cast off and on we went, the river smooth as a

millpond. When a long way off we could see rows of white tents and long

wooden sheds where the sick lay on Grosse isle, and off the landing we

found anchored 17 ships that had come from Ireland or Liverpool and

had fever aboard. The wharf was a poor one and we had trouble getting

ashore, for the steps were rotten and broken. The gentleman they called

the bishop beckoned me to follow him as he walked on, speaking with the

friends who came to meet him. When in front of the first shed, before

going in at the door, he says to me, “Dr Russell will take you to your

nephew,” and with a bow he passed into the shed. I followed the doctor

to another shed and, heavens! when we went in the smell nigh knocked

me down. The doctor must have seen something in my face, for he says,

“Never mind, my man, you’ll soon get used to it.” We passed along

between two rows of berths, everyone filled, and an odd man, here and

there, trying to attend to their wants. The doctor stopped before a

berth where lay a young man, with thick black hair. Seizing his arm he

felt his pulse. “This is your man,” says he. I looks at the worn face

and with a trimble in my voice I could not keep back, I asks, “Is he

able to go away wid me?”

“He’ll go to his grave in a few hours,” says he.

“Doctor, dear, don’t say that; you can save him. I’ll pay you well, if

I have to mortgage my farm to get the money.”

“There is no saving of him, poor fellow; he’s going as many like him

are going,” and with that the doctor moved away.

I knelt beside my nephew and put my hand on his forehead. It was

burning hot. His lips were going and he was muttering something, what

I could not make out. “Gerald, won’t you spake; I’m your uncle come

to take you home wid me.” Never a word. I went over to one of the men

in charge and he pointed where the water was. I filled a noggin and

pressed it to my nephew’s lips and wet his face. I watched by him

for what seemed a long while and saw others die and heard the groans

of those in pain and the screams of those that were raving, and the

beseechings for water to drink. I attended to those near by as well

as I could, and it was when I was coming back with a pail of water I

noticed the flush had left my nephew’s face. I was bathing his forehead

when he opened his eyes and stared at me. “I’m your uncle, me poor boy;

you feel better?”

“May God bless you,” says he, “but what made you come to this fearful

place?”

“Sure its nothing; its little to do for my own sister’s child.”

He squazed my hand and closed his eyes and I knew he was praying for me.

“Bring me a priest.”

A man that was passing told me I’d find one in the next shed. It was

worse than the one I left, for it had one row over the other of

berths. At the far end I saw a priest, and found he was giving the last

rites to an ould man, whose white hair was matted with dirt. I waited

till he was done and asked the father to come with me. I left Gerald

and him alone, and the priest had no sooner said the last prayer than

there was a message for him to go to another poor soul for whom there

was no hope. When Gerald saw me, he said, despairin’ like, “Take me out

o’ here; ye can carry me. I want to die in God’s free air.” These were

his very words.

“That I will,” says I, “and you’ll be home wid me in Huntingdon afore

three days.” He smiled a sorrowful smile, and said nothing. I lifted

him in my arms and carried him out of the shed. I was powerful strong

when I was young, and tho’ he was tall and broad-shouthered he was

wasted to skin and bone. I laid him down in the shade of a tree, for

the sun was hot. He didn’t look at the river or the hills beyant, but

fixed his eyes on a spot that I took to be a burying-place. “Go back,”

he whispered, “and bring the bag below my berth.” I went, and found a

woman had already been put in the poor bed I had lifted him out of.

I reached for the bag and took it to him. Pointing to a spot in the

burying-place he told me to go there and I would see a grave with a

cross at its head and the name Aileen cut on it. “You can read?” “Yes,”

says I. I did his bidding and coming back told him I had found the

grave. “Promise me, you’ll bury me beside that grave.” I promised him.

“Open the bag and you’ll find in it a little book.” I reached it to

him. “Take it,” says he, “there are pages in it I would tear out were I

able. Let it go. Save the book; it will tell to those now unborn what

Irish men and women have suffered in this summer of sorrow.”

He was wake and closed his eyes. “Is there anything more I can do for

yees?” asks I. “Nothing, uncle dear; the summer breeze is sweet.” He

never said another rational word, for the fever set in again and he

began to rave. He talked as if he were on ship again and then he would

change to ould Ireland and he would be aplayin with his comrades, and

his laughing was sore to hear. Then there came a long while when he

was quiet, just tossing uneasy like at times as he slept. My eyes were

on the river and the ships and the green fields bright beyant, when I

hears him whisper, “Mother, dear, have ye been long waiting here for

your boy?” and he spoke to her tender and soft as he must have done

manys the time in ould Ireland. Then it was Aileen he saw, and it

was true-lover talk. Oh, it was all so beautiful; the poor boy dying

there of the fever on the river bank talkin so sweet and loving with

the two women who had filled his heart, an its the lot of love a true

Irishman’s heart can hould. I was gripping his hand, watching him, when

all at once his jaw fell and I saw the soul had fled. I laid him out

as I best could, and rolling the blanket round him lifted the corpse on

my shoulder and carried it to the spot he told me. There were shovels

and picks in plenty and I set myself to dig the grave. The smell of

the fresh earth brought back to me my own family and farm that I had

clean forgot that dreadful day, and I determined to be back with them

at once. There were men at work near me finishing a long trench, and

I saw them watching me and I watched them and listened to their talk.

The sun was low before the grave was finished to my liking. There was

no use trying to get a priest, they had enough to do with the dying

without burying the dead, so I laid the corpse carefully in the grave,

said a prayer and filled it in. I drove in a cedar picket to mark the

spot, for I meant some day to put a headstone there, but I never did,

for I was never able to go back. When all was done I went over to one

of the men who had been digging the trench that I had seen by his

talk was an Irishman. He was smoking his pipe with the lave, who were

waiting for the burial. I got him by himself and told him my errand

on the island and now I was done, I wanted away at once. That’s not

easy, he said. There were guards to prevent any coming on or leaving

the island except by the steamer and with a permit. “Sure,” I says,

“if I stay here till tomorrow I may be a dead man.” “That you will,”

says he, “an thin you’ll hev to go as a passenger in the steamboat that

takes emigrants right on to Montreal.” “I’ll never go on an emigrant

steamboat,” says I, minding the one I had seen. He spoke in French to

two men near us. They lived above Beauport, he told me, and while they

came, like himself, to bury the dead for big pay, they broke the rules

by going home at night, when wind and tide served, in a small boat.

If I’d help them to get done, they would let me go with them. The job

was like to make me sick, but I wanted away, and agreed. By this time

they were beginning to carry the dead from the sheds and tents, and as

the men with the stretchers came up they dumped their load into the

trench. We straightened the corpses to make them lie close, shovelled

some lime over them, and then a few inches of earth, when we were ready

for another row. Then the trench was filled and smoothed over. I had

put on my coat and was cleaning my shovel when one of the Frenchmen

touched my arm and I followed him. We slipped into the bushes and went

to the north side of the island, meeting nobody. At the foot of a steep

bank we found a boat. We got in, and casting loose the tide, which

was making, carried us up until we were a good bit from the island,

when a sail was hoisted and we went at a great speed, for the tide had

brought with it a stiff breeze. On landing I did not follow the men,

for I had something to do I had on my mind. I stripped to the skin,

and spread my clothes on the bushes. Going into the water I rubbed my

handkerchief and shirt and washed myself as I have never done since. I

scrubbed my skin with the sand and sniffed the water up my nose until,

for the first time, since morning, I got the stink out of it. It was

such a warm night, I was in no hurry to put on my clothes, and didn’t

till I thought they were well aired. I may tell you, from the moment

I buried my nephew, the fear of the fever came upon me, though I had

never thought of it afore. Well, when I was ready for the road, I felt

sick, but I knew it was with hunger, for I hadn’t broken bread since

morning. Coming to a habitant’s house, the door of which was open, I

went to it, but when they heard my tongue, they slammed the door in my

face, taking me to be an escaped fever patient. Seeing it was no use, I

walked as quickly as I could to Quebec, and made for the lodging-house

I had left that morning. There was a light in it, though I knew it must

be long past midnight. I went in and there were some sailors drinking

and playing cards. The landlord lifted his eyebrows when he saw me,

and signed me to follow into a back room. He lit a candle “Were you at

the island?” “I was, and am right dead wid hunger.” He brought some

victuals and I told him how I had got on. When I had cleaned the plates

he showed me to a bed. I rose late next day all right, and left with

the steamboat that afternoon for Montreal. The second day after I was

home and thankful my wife was to see me. I held my whisht, and never a

one but herself knew where I had been.

Well, that is all I have to tell. For a long while after, the sights

I had seen followed me, and at night I would wake trembling from my

dreams. That passed away, but I never cared to speak of what I saw,

and tried to keep the island and its sheds out of my mind. Did any

die of the fever in Huntingdon? Yes, Dr Shirriff told me he attended

45 cases, of whom 5 died. Not many were Irish. Emigrants strayed into

farmers’ houses and gave the infection. Father Kiernan was that year

priest in the old church at John Finn’s. He had gone on duty to attend

the emigrants at Lachine. Feeling ill one day he knew he was in for

the fever. If he stayed where he was, he would die in the sheds, so he

waited till the stage came along, got in, and rode home. When he got

off at his lodging, he told the people Geordie Pringle did not know

what kind of a customer he had. Next day he could not lift his head,

but he pulled through all right. What came of the colleen? She left

us that fall. Her mother’s brother in county Kent wrote for her. She

married a storekeeper in Chatham, who left her well off. The little

book is all I took belonging to my nephew. There were more things in

the bag. I was afeared of the infection and never touched them. He

must have had a chest or two, but I never asked for them. He was a good

man, and I’ve been thankful ever since I went to see him die.

Driving home in the dark I thought over what the old man had told me,

and felt how much more interesting his narrative made his nephew’s

diary, a faithful reprint of which I now present to the reader.

THE JOURNAL OF GERALD KEEGAN.