since my last letter. Mike, aged eight, came to us from St. Barbe
Hospital, as he had no home to which he could return. Incidentally it
takes the entire staff to keep this boy moderately tidy, for he and
his garments have an unfortunate inclination to part asunder, and we
are kept in constant apprehension for the credit of the Orphanage. But
Mike, whether with his clothes or without, always turns up smiling and
on excellent terms with himself, entirely regardless of the mental
torture we endure as he comes into view. Indeed, the wider apart are
his garments, the broader is his smile. He weeps quietly each night as
we wash him, for that is a work of supererogation for which he has at
present no use.
Deborah and her brother Gabriel were here when I came. Their ages are
eleven and five, and they come from the far north. Deborah was in the
Mission Hospital at Iron Bound Islands for some time as the result of
a burning accident. While trying to lift a pan of dog-food from the
stove she upset the scalding contents over her legs. Her elder brother
had to drive her eighteen miles on a komatik to the hospital, and the
poor child must have suffered greatly. Gabriel is a very naughty, but
equally lovable child. He is never out of mischief, but he is always
very penitent for his misdeeds--afterwards! His bent is towards
theology, and he speaks with the authority of an ancient divine on all
matters pertaining thereto, and with an air of finality which brooks
no argument. When some one was being given the priority in point of
age over me, he was heard to indignantly exclaim that "Jesus and
Teacher are the oldest people in the world." He is no advocate for the
equality of the sexes, and closes all discussion on equal rights by
explaining that "God made the boys and Jesus the girls."
Our fast-coming winter is sending its harbingers, seen and unseen,
into our harbour. Chief among these one notices the assertiveness of
the dogs. All through the summer they slink pariah-like about the
place, eating whatever they can pick up, and seeking to keep their
miserable existence as much in the background as possible. Now the
winter is approaching, and it is "their little day." Mrs. Uncle Life
can testify to the fact that they are not wholly suppressed when it is
not "their little day." Last summer she found no less important a
personage than the leader of the team in her bed. Her newly baked
"loaf" was lying on the pantry shelf before the open window. Whiskey
(this place is strictly prohibition, but every team boasts its
"Whiskey") leaped in, made a satisfying banquet off her bread, and
then forced open the door into her bedroom adjoining the pantry. He
found it a singularly barren field for adventure, but after his
unaccustomed hearty meal the bed looked tempting. He was found there
two hours later placidly asleep.
[Illustration: MRS. UNCLE LIFE FOUND THE LEADER OF THE TEAM IN HER
BED]
The children are looking forward to Christmas and are already writing
letters to Santa Claus, which are handed to me with great secrecy to
mail to him. I once watched the little ones playing at Christmas with
an old stump of a bush to which they attached twigs as gifts and
gravely distributed them to one another. When I saw one mite handing a
dead twig to a smaller edition of himself, and announcing in a lordly
fashion that it was a PIANO, I realized what Father Christmas
was expected to be able to produce.
_November 1_
My world is transformed into fairyland. Light snow has fallen during
the night, and every "starigan," every patch of "tuckamore" is "decked
in sparkling raiment white." As I was dressing I looked out of my
window, and for the first time in my life saw a dog team and komatik
passing.
The day was full of adventure. For the children the snow meant only
rejoicing; but as the highway was as slippery as glass, and the older
folk had not yet got their "winter legs," there were many minor
casualties. Mrs. Uncle Life, aged seventy and small and spherical,
solved the problem of the hills by sitting down and sliding. She
commended the method to me, saying that it served very well on week
days, but was lamentably detrimental to her Sunday best.
Ananias is developing fast and bids fair to rival Topsy. He has a
mania for eating anything and everything, and what he cannot eat, he
destroys. Within the past few weeks he has swallowed the arm of his
Teddy bear, half a cake of soap, and a tube of tooth-paste. He has
also bitten through two new hot-water bottles. During the short time
he has been here he has broken more windows than any other child in
the Home. If he thinks politeness will save the day, he says in the
sweetest way possible, "Excuse me, Teacher, for doing it"; but if he
sees by my face that retribution is swift and sure, he says in the
most pathetic of tones, "Teacher, I have a pain."
[Illustration: "TEACHER, I HAVE A PAIN"]
I must make you acquainted with our "Yoho." Every well-regulated
fishing village has one, but we have to thank our neighbour, the
Eskimo, for the picturesque name. In our more prosaic parlance it is
plain "ghost." Many years ago when the Mission was in need of a
building in which to accommodate some of its workers, it purchased a
house belonging to a local trader by the name of Isaac Spouseworthy.
This made an admirable Guest House; but it has since fallen into
disuse for its original purpose, and is being employed as a temporary
repository for the clothing sent for the poor, till the fine new
storehouse shall have been built. This old Guest House has been
selected by our local apparition as a place of visitation. It is
affirmed, on the incontrovertible testimony of the Prophet and no
inconsiderable following, that the spirit returns of an evening to the
old house he built forty years ago, to wander through the familiar
rooms. The villagers see lights there nightly; and though all our
investigation has failed to reveal any presence (barring the rats),
bodily or otherwise, the bravest of them would hesitate many a long
minute before he would enter the haunted spot after nightfall. Rumour
has it that the Guest House is built on the site of an old French
cemetery. Our "irrepressible Ike" therefore cannot lack for society,
though how congenial it is cannot be determined. Judging from the
records of the ceaseless rows between the French and English on Le
Petit Nord, there must be some lively nights in ghostland.
The doctor suggested that if a burglar wished to steal the clothing,
this spook would be his most effective accomplice, but such tortuous
psychology has failed to satisfy the fishermen. To them we seem
callous souls, to whom the spirit world is alien. This ghostly
encroachment on our erstwhile quiet domain has had more than one
inconvenient result. The Mission is very short of houses for its
workmen, and was planning to rebuild and put in order a part of this
now haunted domicile for one family. The man for whom it was destined
now refuses to live there, as his children have vetoed the idea. In
this land the word of the rising generation is law, and this refusal
is therefore final.
The children of this North Country are given what they wish and when
and how. Naturally the results of such a policy are serious. There are
many cases of hopeless cripples about here who refused to go to
hospital for treatment when their trouble was so slight that it could
have been rectified. Now the children must look forward to a life of
disability through their parents' short-sightedness. But when I think
of what it means to these poor women to have perhaps ten children to
care for, and all the rest of the work of the house and garden on
their shoulders, I cannot wonder that their motto is "peace at any
price."
Spirits might be called the outstanding feature of our harbour, for
the Piquenais rocks at the very entrance are the abode of another
familiar _revenant_. The Prophet assures me that thirty years ago a
vessel and crew were wrecked there, and on every succeeding stormy
evening since that day, the captain, with creditable perseverance,
waves his light on that wind-and surf-swept rock. In this instance the
prophetical authority is in dispute, for there are those who assert
that the light is shown by fairies to toll boats to their doom on the
foggy point. The more scientifically minded explain the mysterious
light as a defunct animal giving out gas. It must be a persistent gas
which can retain its efficacy for thirty long and adventurous years.
[Illustration: THE YOHO]
In the course of these researches several interesting points of
natural history and science have been elucidated. Doubtless you do not
know that all cats are related to the devil, but you can readily see
the brimstone in their fur if you have the temerity to rub them on a
dusky evening. Neither has it come to your attention that under no
consideration must you allow the water in which potatoes have been
washed to run over your hands. In the latter event, warts innumerable
will result.
Our cook has just come in with the news that supper is not to be
forthcoming. 'Senath was left in charge while Tryphena went on an
errand for me. Left-over salad was to have formed the basis of the
evening meal, but the said basis has now disintegrated, 'Senath having
placed the dish in a superheated oven. The nature of the resultant
object is indeterminate, but uneatable. I solace myself that
sanctified starvation will be beneficial to my "fine and hearty"
figure.
We have suffered again with the dogs. One of the children's birthdays
fell on Saturday, and we decided to give the whole "crew" ice-cream to
fittingly celebrate the event. It was made in good time and put out to
keep cool in what we took to be a safe spot. The party preceding the
_pièce de résistance_ was in full swing when an ominous disturbance
was detected from the direction of the woodshed. Investigation
revealed two angry dogs alternately snarling at each other and
devouring the last lick of the treat. The catholicity of canine taste
was no solace to the aggrieved assembly.
The children have lately been making excursions into the theological
field. The latest problem brought to me for settlement was, "Does God
live in the Methodist Church?" Truly a two-horned dilemma. If I said
"yes" the anthropomorphic teaching was undoubted; while if the answer
were in the negative I should be guilty of fostering the abominable
denominational spirit which ruins this land. My reply must have been
unconvincing, for I overheard the children later deciding, the
Methodist Church having been barred as a place of residence, that the
attic was the only remaining possibility. It is the one spot in the
Home unvisited by them, and therefore "unseen."
Unseemly altercations have summoned me to the kitchen, and I return to
close this over-long chronicle. I was met there by Tryphena, a large
sheet in her hands, and an accusing expression on her face which
stamped her as a family connection of the Prophet's.
"It's not my fault, miss," she began.
"No, Tryphena? Well, whose is it, and what is it?"
"Look at that sheet, miss, a new one. 'Senath was ironing, and had
folded it just ready to put away. Then she suddenly wants a drink, so
she goes off leaving the iron in the middle of the sheet. Half an hour
later she remembers. When she got back, of course the iron had burnt
its way straight through all the layers."
Aside from destruction, in what direction would you say that 'Senath's
forte did lie?
_November 17_
I have received your letter with its pointed remarks about the long
delays of the mail-carrier. I consider them both unnecessary and
unkind. But as David would say, "I am going to be good all the time
now."
We have this moment returned from church, to which the children love
to go; it is the great excitement of the week. They sit very quietly,
except Topsy, but how much they understand I cannot say. The people
sing with deliberation, each syllable being made to do duty for three,
to prolong the enjoyment--or the agony--according as your musical
talent decides. Frequently there is no one to play the instrument, and
the hymns are started several times, until something resembling the
right pitch is struck. Sometimes a six-line hymn will be started to a
common metre tune, and all goes swimmingly until the inevitable crash
at the end of the fourth line. But nothing daunted, we try and try
again. I have supplied our smiling-faced cherubs with hymn books in
order that
"Their voices may in tune be found
Like David's harp of solemn sound"
--excuse the adaptation. This morning the service was particularly
dreary. Hymn after hymn started to end in conspicuous failure,
followed by an interminable discourse on the sufferings of the damned.
But we ended cheerfully by warbling forth the joys of heaven--
"Where congregations ne'er break up
And Sabbaths never end!"
Last week we had a thrilling event; one of the girls formerly in this
Home was married, and we all went to the wedding, even the little tots
who are too young for regular services. They afterwards told me they
would like to go on Sundays, so I imagine they think the marriage
ceremony a regular item of Divine worship. Alas! I almost disgraced
myself when the clergyman solemnly announced to the intending bride
and bridegroom that the holy estate of matrimony had been "ordained of
God for the persecution of children"!
* * * * *
How you would have laughed to see me the other night. The steamer
arrived at midnight, and as we were expecting some children I went
down to meet them. There were three little boys, Esau, Joseph, and
Nathan, eight, six, and four years of age. I bore them in triumph to
the bathroom, feeling that even at that late hour cleanliness should
be compulsory. But I soon desisted from my purpose and as quickly as
possible bundled the dirty children into my neat, snowy beds! They
kicked, they fought, they bit, they yelled and they swore! All my
sleeping innocents awoke at the noise and added their voices to the
confusion. I momentarily expected an in-rush of neighbours, and a
summons the following day for cruelty to children.
Uriah has come to inform me that he cannot "cleave the splits," as his
"stomach has capsized." I felt it incumbent to administer a dose of
castor oil, thinking that might be sufficient punishment for what I
had reason to believe was only a dodge to escape work. It was hard for
me to give the oil, but harder still to have the boy look up after it
with a quite cherubic smile, and ask if it were the same oil as Elisha
gave the widow woman!
Whatever can survive in this land of difficulties survives with a zeal
and vitality which only proves the strength of the obstacles overcome.
The flies, the mosquitoes, and the rats are proofs. We have none of
your meek little wharf rats here. Ours are brazen imps, sleek and
shameless, undaunted by cats or men. Their footmarks are as big as
those of young puppies (withal not too well-fed puppies), and their
raids on man and beast alike ally them with the horde Pandora loosed.
Each day the toll mounts. One morning Miss Perrin, the head nurse,
awakened to find one of her prize North Labrador boots gnawed to the
rim. All that remained to tell the tale was the bright tape by which
it was hung up, and the skin groove through which the tape threads.
[Illustration: THEY ATE THE ENTIRE BOOT]
On the next occasion of their public appearance the night nurse was
summoned by agonized shrieks to the children's ward. A large rodent
had climbed upon Ishimay's bed and bitten her. There were the marks of
his teeth in her hand, and the blood was dripping. Nor do they limit
their depredations to the hospital. The barn man turned over a bale of
hay last week and disclosed no less than twenty-seven rats young and
old, fat and lean, though chiefly fat. I rejoice to record that this
galaxy at least has departed Purgatory-wards. The dentist left a whole
bag of clean linen on the floor of his bedroom. The morning following
he found that the raiders had eaten their way through the sack,
cutting a series of neat round holes in each folded garment as they
progressed. The scuffling and the squealing and the scraping and the
gnawing and the scratching of rats in the walls and cupboards are
worse than any phalanx of "Yohos" ever summoned from spookland! Oh!
Pied Piper of Hamelin, why tarry so long!
_December 14_
The last boat of the season has come and gone and now we settle down
to the real life of the winter. Plans innumerable are under way for
winter activities, and the children are on tiptoe over the prospect of
approaching Christmastide. Their jubilations fill the house, and
writing is even more difficult than usual.
For days before the last steamer finally reached us there were
speculations as to her coming. Rumour, a healthy customer in these
parts, three times had it that she had gone back, having given up the
unequal contest with the ice. As all our Christmas mail was aboard
her, the atmosphere was tense. Then came the news from Croque that she
was there, busily unloading freight. Six hours later her smoke was
sighted, and from the yells my bairns set up, you would have thought
that the mythical sea serpent was entering port. She butted her way
into the standing harbour ice as far as she could get, and promptly
began discharging cargo. Teams of dogs sprang up seemingly out of the
snow-covered earth, and in a mere twinkling our frozen and silent
harbour was an arena of activity. The freight is dumped on the ice
over the ship's side with the big winch, and each man must hunt for
his own as it descends. Some of the goods are dropped with such a thud
that the packages "burst abroad." This is all very well if the
contents are of a solid and resisting nature; but if butter, or beans,
or such like receive the shock, most regrettable results ensue.
During the hours of waiting here she froze solidly into the ice, and
had to be blasted out before she could commence her journey to the
southward. She has taken the mails with her, and this letter must come
to you by dog team--your first by that method.
In the early part of this summer three little orphan girls came to us
from Mistaken Cove. Their names are Carmen, Selina, and Rachel, and
their ages, ten, seven, and five. Their father has been dead for some
years, and the mother recently died of tuberculosis. They did look
such a pathetic little trio when they first arrived. I went down to
the wharf to meet them, and three quaint little figures stepped from
the hospital boat, with dresses almost to their feet. Carmen held the
hands of her two sisters, and greeted me with "Are you the woman wot's
going to look after we?" I assured her that I hoped to perform that
function to the best of my ability, and then she confided to me that
she had brought with her a box containing her mother's dresses and her
mother's hair. I fancy the responsibility of the entire household must
have rested on Carmen's tiny shoulders; she is like a little old
woman, and even her voice is care-worn. I hunted up some dolls for the
two younger kiddies, but had not the courage to offer one to their
elder sister. She evidently felt that dolls were altogether too
precious for common use, and carefully explained to her charges that
they were only for Sundays! When I next went to the playroom it was to
find the three little sisters sitting solemnly in a row on the locker
with their dolls safely packed away beneath. I persuaded them that
dolls were not too good for "human nature's daily food," and since
then they have been supremely happy with their babies.
Carmen is so devoted to little Rachel that she cannot bear the thought
of her being in trouble. Rachel is very human, and in the brief time
she has been with us has had many falls from the paths of rectitude.
One day shortly after their arrival Rachel had been naughty, and I had
taken her upstairs to explain to her the enormity of her offence,
Carmen standing meanwhile at the bottom of the stairs wringing her
hands. When Rachel reappeared and announced that she had not even been
punished, Carmen was seen to give her a good slap on her own account,
although evidently well pleased that no one else had dared to touch
her child. Carmen is extremely religious, and her prayers at night are
lengthy and devout. She starts off with the Lord's Prayer, the
Apostles' Creed; several collects follow, and she concludes with a
"Hail Mary!"
You have already made the acquaintance of Billy the Ox, the now dear
departed, who constitutes our winter's frozen meat supply. Our
allotted portion of him is hung in the balcony outside my window.
Being on the second floor it was thought to be sanctuary from
marauders. Last night I was awakened by an uneasy feeling of a
presence entering my room. Starting up, I made out in the moonlight
the great tawny form of one of our biggest dogs. He was in the balcony
making so far futile leaps to secure a section of Billy. My shout
discouraged him, and he jumped off the roof to the snow beneath. He
had managed to scale the side of the house--but how? For some time I
was at a loss to discover, till I remembered a ladder which had been
placed perpendicularly against the wall on the other side. One of the
double windows had broken loose in a recent storm of wind, and the
barn man had had to go up and mend it. True to type he had left the
ladder _in statu quo_. Up master dog had climbed straight into the
air, along the slippery rungs of the ladder. When he reached the level
of the tempting odour, he had alighted on the balcony roof. Then,
pursuing the odour to its lair, he had discovered Billy, and me!
At breakfast I told my adventurette, and the story was instantly
capped with others. Only one shall you have. The doctor was away on a
travel last winter, and late one blustersome night came to a little
village. He happened to have a very beautiful leader of which he was
inordinately careful, so he asked his host for the night if he had a
shed into which he could put Spider out of the weather. "Why, to be
sure, just at the left of the door." It was dark and blowing, and the
doctor went outside and thrust the beastie into the only building in
sight. After breakfast he went with his host to get the dogs. When he
started to open the door of the shelter in which Spider was
incarcerated, the fisherman burst out in dismay, "You never put him in
there? That's where I keeps my only sheep." At that second the dog
appeared, a spherical and satisfied specimen. He had taken the
stranger in--completely.
[Illustration: HE HAD TAKEN THE STRANGER IN]
The cold is intense, and to combat it in these buildings of green
lumber is a task worthy of Hercules. We make futile attempts to keep
the pipes from freezing; but the north wind has a new trump each
night. He squeezes in through every chink and cranny, and once inside
the house goes whistling malignantly through the chilly rooms and
corridors. We keep an oil stove burning in our bathroom at night with
a kettle of water on it ready for our morning ablutions. To-day, when
I went in to dress--one does not dress in one's bedroom, but waits in
bed till the bathroom door's warning slam informs that the coast is
clear--there was the stove still merrily burning, and there was the
kettle of water on it--FROZEN.
Next month there is to be a sale in Nameless Cove, twelve miles to the
westward of us. The doctor has asked me to attend. I accepted
delightedly, as twenty-four hours free from fear of rats and frozen
pipes draws me like a magnet. Moreover, who wouldn't be on edge if it
were one's first dog drive!
I found Gabriel crying bitterly in bed the other night because he had
in a fit of mischief thrown a stone at the Northern lights, which is
regarded as an act of impiety by the Eskimo people. It was some time
before I could pacify the child, or get him to believe that no dire
results would follow his dreadful deed. But at length when "comforting
time" was come for him, he consoled himself by supposing that Teacher
must be "stronger than the devil."
_December 27_