Barrie--Next of Kin--Nightmare--On the Road--Strawberries and
Botany--Poetry and Sentiment--The Virago--Luncheon and
Wordsworth--Waterplants, Leeches and Verse--Cutting Sticks--Rain,
Muggins and Rawdon.
The travellers carried their knapsacks in their hands by the straps, to
the nearest hotel, where, after brief delay, a special supper was set
for them. Having discussed the frugal meal, they repaired to the
combined reading and smoking room, separate from the roughish crowd at
the bar. Wilkinson glanced over a Toronto paper, while his companion,
professing an interest in local news, picked up an organ of the town and
read it through, advertisements and all, in which painstaking effort he
was helped by his pipe. Suddenly he grasped the paper, and, holding it
away from his face, exclaimed, "Is it possible that they are the same?"
"Who, who?" ejaculated Wilkinson; "do not tell me that the captain was
mistaken, that they are really here."
"Do you know old Carmichael's initials, the doctor's, that was member
for Vaughan?" his friend asked, paying no attention to the
schoolmaster's question.
"James D.," replied that authority; "I remember, because I once made the
boys get up the members' names along with their constituencies, so as to
give the latter a living interest."
"Now, listen to this: 'Next of kin; information wanted concerning the
whereabouts of James Douglas Carmichael, or his heirs at law. He left
the University of Edinburgh, where he was in attendance on the Faculty
of Medicine, in the spring of 1848, being at the time twenty-one years
of age. The only trace of his farther life is a fragment of a letter
written by him to a friend two years later, when he was serving as a
soldier in the military station of Barrief, Upper Canada. Reward offered
for the same by P.R. MacSmaill, W.S., 19 Clavers Row, Edinburgh.' If
James Douglas Carmichael, ex-medical student, wasn't the member and the
father of that girl of yours, I'm a Dutchman."
"Mr. Coristine, I insist, sir, before another word passes between us,
that you withdraw and apologize for the deeply offensive expression,
which must surely have escaped your lips unperceived, 'that girl of
yours.'"
"Oh, there, now, I'm always putting my foot in it. I meant the girl you
are interested in--no, it isn't that other--the girl that's interested
in you--oh, wirra wisha! it's not that at all--it's the girl the captain
was joking you about."
"A joke from a comparatively illiterate man like the captain of the
schooner, to whom we were under travelling obligations, and a joke from
my equal, a scholar and a gentleman, are two distinct things. I wish the
expression, 'that girl of yours,' absolutely and forever withdrawn."
"Well, well, I consent to withdraw it absolutely and apologize for
saying it, but that 'forever' clause goes against my legal judgment. If
the late Dr. Carmichael's heiress comes in for a fortune, we might
repent that 'forever.'"
"What has that to do with me, sir, fortune or no fortune? Your
insinuations are even more insulting than your open charges of
infidelity to our solemn compact."
It was Coristine's turn to be angry. He rose from the table at which he
had been sitting, with the paper still in his hand, and said: "You make
mountains out of molehills, Wilkinson. I've made you a fair and full
apology, and shall do no more, if you sulk your head off." So saying, he
stalked out of the room, and Wilkinson was too much angered to try to
stop him.
The lawyer asked the landlord if he would spare him the newspaper for an
hour and supply him with pen and ink and a few sheets of paper. Then he
took his lamp and retired to his room. "Poor old Farquhar," he
soliloquized, as he arranged his writing materials; "he'll feel mighty
bad at being left all alone, but it's good for his health, and business
is business. Let me see, now. Barrie was never a military station,
besides the letter had Barrief on it, a name that doesn't exist. But the
letter was torn there, or the corner worn away in a man's pocket. By the
powers, it's Barriefield at Kingston, and there's the military station
for you. I'll write our correspondent there, and I'll set one of the
juniors to work up Dr. Carmichael's record in Vaughan County, and I'll
notify MacSmaill, W.S., that I am on the track, and--shall I write the
girl, there's the rub?" The three letters were written with great care
and circumspection, but not the fourth. When carefully sealed, directed
and stamped, he carried them to the post-office and personally deposited
them in the slit for drop-letters. Returning to the hotel, he restored
the newspaper to the table of the reading-room, minus the clipped
advertisement to the next of kin, which he stowed away in his
pocketbook. This late work filled the lawyer with a satisfaction that
crowned the pleasures of the day, and he longed to communicate some of
it to his friend, but that gentleman, the landlord said, had retired for
the night, looking a bit put out--he hoped supper had been to his
liking. Coristine said the supper was good. "What was the number of Mr.
Wilkinson's room?"
Mine host replied that it was No. 32, the next to his own. Before
retiring, Coristine looked at the fanlight over the door of No. 32; it
was dark. Nevertheless he knocked, but failed to evoke a response.
"Farquhar, my dear," he whispered in an audible tone, but still there
was no answer. So he heaved a sigh, and, returning to his apartment,
read a few words out of his pocket prayer-book, and went to bed. There
he had an awful dream, of the old captain leading Wilkinson by the
collar and tail of his coat up to the altar, where Miss Carmichael
stood, resplendent in pearls and diamonds, betokening untold wealth; of
an attempt at rescue by himself and The Crew, which was nipped in the
bud by the advent of the veteran, his daughter and Miss Jewplesshy. The
daughter laid violent hands upon The Crew and waltzed him out of the
church door, while the veteran took Coristine's palsied arm and placed
that of his young mistress upon it, ordering them, with military words
of command, to accompany the victims, as bridesmaid and groomsman. When
the dreamer recovered sufficiently to look the officiating clergyman
full in the face, he saw that this personage was no other than Frank,
the news-agent, whereupon he laughed immediately and awoke.
"Corry, Corry, my dear fellow, are you able to get up, or shall I break
the door in?" were the words that greeted his ear on awaking.
"The omadhaun!" he said to himself under the bedclothes; "it would be a
good thing to serve him with the sauce of silence, as he did me last
night." But better counsels prevailed in his warm Irish heart, and he
arose to unlock the door, when suddenly it flew open, and Wilkinson,
with nothing but a pair of trousers added to his night attire, fell
backwards into his arms. It was broad daylight as each looked into the
other's face for explanations.
"But you're strong, Wilks!" said the lawyer with admiration.
"Corry, when I heard you groan that way, I was sure you were in a fit."
"Oh, it was nothing," replied his friend, who found it hard to keep from
laughing, "only a bad nightmare."
"What were you dreaming about to bring it on?"
Now, this was just what Coristine dared not tell, for the truth would
bring up all last night's misunderstanding. So he made up a story of
Wilkinson's teaching The Crew navigation and the use of the globes, when
the captain interfered and threatened to kick master and pupil
overboard. Then he, Coristine, interposed, and the captain fell upon
him. "And you know, Wilks, he's a heavy man."
"Well, I am heartily glad it is no worse. Get a wash and get your
clothes on, and come down to breakfast, like a good boy, for I hear the
bell ringing."
Over their coffee and toast, eggs and sausages, the two were as kind and
attentive to one another's wants, as if no dispute had ever marred their
friendship. The dominie got out his sketch map of a route and opened it
between them. "We shall start straight for the bush road into the north,
if that suits you," he said, "and travel by easy stages towards
Collingwood, where we shall again behold one of our inland seas. But, as
it may be sometime before we reach a house of entertainment, it may be
as well to fill the odd corners of our knapsacks with provisions for the
way."
"I say amen to that idea," replied the lawyer, and the travellers arose,
paid their bill, including the price of the door-lock, seized their
knapsacks by the straps and sallied forth. They laid in a small stock of
captain's biscuits, a piece of good cheese, and some gingersnaps for
Wilkinson's sweet tooth; they also had their flask refilled, and
Coristine invested in some pipe-lights. Then they sallied forth, not
into the north as Wilkinson had said, it being a phrase he was fond of,
but, at first, in a westerly, and, on the whole, in a north-westerly
direction.
When the last house on the outskirts was left behind them, they helped
each other on with their knapsacks, and felt like real pedestrians. The
bush enclosed them on either side of the sandy road, so that they had
shade whenever they wanted it. Occasionally a wayfarer would pass them
with a curt "good morning," or a team would rattle by, its driver
bestowing a similar salutation. The surface of the country was flat, but
this did not hinder Wilkinson reciting:--
Mount slowly, sun! and may our journey lie
Awhile within the shadow of this hill,
This friendly hill, a shelter from thy beams!
"That reminds me," said Coristine, "of a fellow we had in the office
once, whose name was Hill. He was a black-faced, solemn-looking genius,
and the look of him would sink the spirits of a skylark down to zero.
'What's come over you?' said Woodruff to me one fine afternoon, when I
was feeling a bit bilious. 'Oh,' said I, 'I've been within the shadow of
this Hill,' and he laughed till he was black in the face."
"Corry, if I were not ashamed of making a pun, or, as we say in academic
circles, being guilty of antanaclasis, I would say that you are
in-corri-gible."
Coristine laughed, and then remarked seriously, "Here am I, with a
strap-press full of printing paper in my knapsack, and paying no
attention to science at all. We must begin to take life in airnest now,
Wilks, my boy, and keep our eyes skinned for specimens. Sorry I am I
didn't call and pay my respects to my botanical friend at the Barrie
High School. He could have given us a pointer or two about the flowers
that grow round here."
"Flowers are scarce in July," said the schoolmaster, "they seem to take
a rest in the hot weather. The spring is their best time. Of course you
know that song about the flowers in spring?"
"Never heard it in my life; sing it to us, Farquhar, like a darlin'."
Now, the dominie was not given to singing, but thus adjured, and the
road being clear, he sang in a very fair voice:--
We are the flowers,
The fair young flowers
That come with the voice of Spring,
Tra la la, la la la, la la,
Tra la, tra la a a a.
Coristine revelled in the chorus, which, at the "a a a," went up to the
extreme higher compass of the human voice and beyond it. He made his
friend repeat the performance, called him a daisy, and tra la la'd to
his heart's content. Then he sat down on a grassy bank by the wayside
and laughed loud and long. "Oh, it's a nice pair of fair young flowers
we are, coming with the voice of spring; but we're not hayseeds,
anyway." When the lawyer turned himself round to rise, Wilkinson asked
seriously, "Did you hurt yourself then, Corry?"
"Never a bit, except that I'm weak with the laughing; and for why?"
"Because there is some red on your trousers, and I thought it might be
blood--that you had sat down on some sharp thing."
"It'll be strawberry blite, I'll wager, _Blitum capitatum_, and a fine
thing it is. Mrs. Marsh, that keeps our boarding house, has a garden
where it grows wild in among the peas. She wanted some colouring for the
icing of a cake, and hadn't a bit of cochineal or anything of the kind
in the house. She was telling me her trouble, for it was a holiday and
the shops were shut, and she's always that friendly with me; when, says
I, 'There is no trouble about that.' So I went to the garden and got two
lovely stalks of _Blitum capitatum_. 'Is it poison?' said she. 'Poison!'
said I; 'and it belonging to the _Chenopodiaceæ_, the order that owns
beets and spinach, and all the rest of them. Trust a botanist, ma'am,' I
said. It made the sweetest pink icing you ever saw, and Mrs. Marsh is
for ever deeply grateful, and rears that _Blitum_ with fond and anxious
care."
"I would like to see that plant," said Wilkinson. So they retraced
their steps to the bank, over which Coristine leaned tenderly, picking
something which he put into his mouth. "Come on, Wilks," he cried; "it
isn't blite, but something better. It's wild strawberries themselves,
and lashings of them. Sure any fool might have known them by the leaves,
even if he was a herald, the worst fool of all, and only knew them from
a duke's coronet."
For a time there was silence, for the berries were numerous, and,
although small, sweet and of delicate flavour.
"Corry, they are luscious; this is Arcadia and Elysium."
"Foine, Wilks, foine," mumbled the lawyer, with his mouth full of
berries.
"This folly of mine, sitting down on the blessings of
Providence--turning my back upon them, so to speak," he remarked, after
the first hunger was over, "reminds me of a man who took the gold medal
in natural science. He had got his botany off by rote, so, when he was
travelling between Toronto and Hamilton, a friend that was sitting
beside him said, 'Johnson, what's in that field out there?' Johnson
looked a bit put out, but said boldly, 'It's turnips.' There was an old
farmer in the seat behind him, and he spoke up and said, 'Turmuts!' said
he, 'them's hoats--ha, ha, ha!'"
As they tramped along, the botanist found some specimens: two lilies,
the orange and the Turk's cap; the willow herb, the showy ladies'
slipper, and three kinds of milkweed. He opened his knapsack, took out
the strap press, and carefully bestowed his floral treasures between
sheets of unglazed printers' paper. Wilkinson took a friendly interest
in these proceedings, and insisted on being furnished with the botanical
names of all the specimens.
"That willow-herb, now, _Epilobium angustifolium_, is called fire-weed,"
said the botanist, "and is an awful nuisance on burnt ground. There was
a Scotchman out here once, about this time of the year, and he thought
it was such a pretty pink flower that he would take some home with him.
So, when the downy-winged seeds came, he gathered a lot, and, when he
got back to Scotland, planted them. Lord! the whole country about Perth
got full of the stuff, till the farmers cursed him for introducing the
American Saugh."
"The American what?" demanded Wilkinson.
"Saugh; it's an old Scotch word for willow, and comes from the French
_saule_, I suppose."
"I am not sorry for them," said Wilkinson; "they say that pest, the
Canada thistle, came from the Old Country."
"Yes, that's true; and so did Pusley, which Warner compares with
original sin; and a host of other plants. Why, on part of the Hamilton
mountain you won't find a single native plant. It is perfectly covered,
from top to bottom, with dusty, unwholesome-looking weeds from Europe
and the Southern States. But we paid them back."
"How was that?"
"You know, a good many years ago, sailing vessels began to go from the
Toronto harbour across the Atlantic to British ports. There's a little
water-plant that grows in Ashbridge's Bay, called the Anacharis, and
this little weed got on to the bottom of the ocean vessels. Salt water
didn't kill it, but it lived till the ships got to the Severn, and there
it fell off and took root, and blocked up the canals with a solid mass
of subaqueous vegetation that made the English canal men dredge night
and day to get rid of it. I tell you we've got some pretty hardy things
out here in Canada."
"Do you not think," asked Wilkinson, "that our talk is getting too like
that of Charles and his learned father in Gosse's 'Canadian
Naturalist'?"
"All right, my boy, I'll oppress you no longer with a tender father's
scientific lore, but, with your favourite poet, say:--
"To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
"That is because of their associations, a merely relative reason," said
the dominie.
"It isn't though, at least not altogether. Listen, now, to what Tennyson
says, or to something like what he says:--
Little flower in the crannied wall,
Peeping out of the crannies,
I hold you, root and all, in my hand;
Little flower, if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
There's no association nor relation in that; the flower brings you at
once face to face with infinite life. Do you know what these
strawberries brought to me?"
"A pleasant feast I should say."
"No, they made me think how much better it would have been if I had had
somebody to gather them for; I don't say a woman, because that's tabooed
between us, but say a child, a little boy or girl. There's no
association or relation there at all; the strawberries called up love,
which is better than a pleasant feast."
"According to Wordsworth, the flower in the crannied wall and the
strawberry teach the same lesson, for does he not say:--
That life is love and immortality.
* * * * *
Life, I repeat, is energy of love,
Divine or human, exercised in pain,
In strife and tribulation, and ordained,
If so approved and sanctified, to pass
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy?
At any rate, that is what he puts into his Parson's lips.
"Farquhar, my boy, I think we'd better stop, for I'm weakening fast.
It's sentimental the flowers and the fruit are making me. I mind, when I
was a little fellow in the old sod, my mother gathering wild flowers
from the hedges and putting them all round the ribbon of my straw hat. I
can't pay her the debt of that mark of love the same way, but I feel I
should pay it to somebody. You never told me about your mother."
"No, because she is dead and gone long ago, and my father married again,
and brought a vixen, with two trollops of girls, to take the place of an
angel. These three women turned my stomach at all the sex. Look, there's
a pretty woman for you!"
They had reached a clearing in the bush, consisting of a corn patch and
a potato field, in which a woman, with a man's hat on her head and a
pair of top-boots upon her nether extremities, looking a veritable guy,
was sprinkling the potato plants with well-diluted Paris green. The
shanty pertaining to the clearing was some little distance from the
road, and, hoping to get a drink of water there, Coristine prepared to
jump the rail fence and make his way towards it. The woman, seeing what
he was about, called: 'Hi, Jack, Jack!' and immediately a big mongrel
bull-dog came tearing towards the travellers, barking as he ran.
"Come back, Corry, for heaven's sake, or he'll bite you!" cried
Wilkinson.
"Never a fear," answered the lately sentimental botanist; "barking dogs
don't bite as a rule." So he jumped the fence in earnest, and said
soothingly, as if he were an old friend: "Hullo, Jack, good dog!"
whereupon the perfidious Jack grovelled at his feet and then jumped up
for a caress. But the woman came striding along, picking up a grubbing
hoe by the way to take the place of the treacherous defender of the
house.
"Hi, git out o' that, quick as yer legs'll take yer; git out now! we
don't want no seeds, ner fruit trees, ner sewin' machines, ner fambly
Bibles. My man's jist down in the next patch, an' if yer don't git, I'll
set him on yer."
"Madam," said Coristine, lifting his hat, "permit me to explain--"
"Go 'long, I tell yer; that's the way they all begin, with yer madam an'
explainin'; I'll explain this hoe on yer if yer take another step."
"We are not agents, nor tramps, nor tract distributors, nor collectors
for missions," cried Coristine, as soon as he had a chance to speak. "My
friend, here, is a gentleman engaged in education, and I am a lawyer,
and all we want is a glass of water."
"A liyer, eh?" said the Amazon, in a very much reduced tone; "Why didn't
yer say so at wonst, an' not have me settin' that good for nuthin' brute
on yer? I never see liyers with a pack on their backs afore. Ef yer
wants a drink, why don't yer both come on to the house?"
Wilkinson, at this not too cordial invitation, vaulted over the fence
beside his companion, and they walked housewards, the woman striding on
ahead, and the dog sniffing at Wilkinson's heels in the rear. A rather
pretty red-haired girl of about fifteen was washing dishes, evidently
in preparation for the mid-day meal. Her the woman addressed as Anna
Maria, and ordered her to go and get a pail of fresh water for the
gentlemen. But Wilkinson, who felt he must do something to restore his
credit, offered to get the water if Anna Maria would show him the well
or pump that contained it. The girl gave him a tin pail, and he
accompanied her to the back of the house, where the well and a bucket
with a rope were. In vain he tried to sink that bucket; it would not
sink. At last the girl took it out of his hands, turned the bucket
upside down, and, letting it fall with a vicious splash, brought it up
full of deliciously cool water, which she transferred to the pail.
"You are very clever to do that the first time," remarked the
schoolmaster, wishing to be polite to the girl, who looked quite
pleasant and comely, in spite of her bare feet and arms.
"There ain't no cleverness about it," she replied, with a harsh nasal
accent; "any fool most could do as much." Wilkinson carried the tin pail
to the shanty disillusioned, took his drink out of a cup that seemed
clean enough, joined his friend in thanking mother and daughter for
their hospitality, and retired to the road.
"Do you find your respect for the fair sex rising?" he asked Coristine,
cynically.
"The mother's an awful old harridan--"
"Yes, and when the daughter is her age she will be a harridan, too, the
gentle rustic beauties have gone out of date, like the old poets. The
schoolmaster is much needed here to teach young women not to compare
gentlemen even if they are pedestrianizing, to 'any fool most.'"
"Oh, Wilks, is that where you're hit? I thought you and she were long
enough over that water business for a case of Jacob and Rachel at the
well, ha, ha!"
"Come, cease this folly, Coristine, and let us get along."
Sentiment had received a rude shock. It met with a second when Coristine
remarked "I'm hungry." Still, he kept on for another mile or so, when
the travellers sighted a little brook of clear water rippling over
stones. A short distance to the left of the road it was shaded by trees
and tall bushes, not too close together, but presenting, here and
there, little patches of grass and the leaves of woodland flowers.
Selecting one of these patches, they unstrapped their knapsacks, and
extracted from them a sufficiency of biscuits and cheese for luncheon.
Then one of the packs, as they had irreverently been called, was turned
over to make a table. The biscuits and cheese were moistened with small
portions from the contents of the flasks, diluted with the cool water of
the brook. The meal ended, Wilkinson took to nibbling ginger snaps and
reading Wordsworth. The day was hot, so that a passing cloud which came
over the face of the sun was grateful, but it was grateful to beast as
well as to man, for immediately a swarm of mosquitoes and other flies
came forth to do battle with the reposing pedestrians. Coristine's pipe
kept them from attacking him in force, but Wilkinson got all the more in
consequence. He struck savagely at them with Wordsworth, anathematized
them in choice but not profane language, and, at last, rose to his feet,
switching his pocket handkerchief fiercely about his head. Coristine
picked up the deserted Wordsworth, and laughed till the smoke of his
pipe choked him and the tears came into his eyes.
"I see no cause for levity in the sufferings of a fellow creature," said
the schoolmaster, curtly.
"Wilks, my darling boy, it's not you I'm laughing at; it's that old
omadhaun of a Wordsworth. Hark to this, now:--
He said, ''Tis now the hour of deepest noon.
At this still season of repose and peace,
This hour, when all things which are not at rest
Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies
Is filling all the air with melody;
Why should a tear be in an old man's eye?'
O Wilks, but this beats cock-fighting; 'Why should a tear be in an old
man's eye?' Sorra a bit do I know, barring it's the multitude of flies.
O Wordy, Wordy, bard of Rydal Mount, it's sick with laughing you'll be
making me. All things not at rest are cheerful. Dad, if he means the
flies, they're cheerful enough, but if it's my dear friend, Farquhar
Wilkinson, it's a mistake the old gentleman is making. See, this is more
like it, at the very beginning of 'The Excursion':--
Nor could my weak arm disperse
The host of insects gathering round my face,
And ever with me as I paced along.
That's you, Wilks, you to a dot. What a grand thing poetic instinct is,
that looks away seventy years into the future and across the Atlantic
Ocean, to find a humble admirer in the wilds of Canada, and tell how he
looked among the flies. 'Why should a tear be in an old man's eye?' O,
holy Moses, that's the finest line I've sighted in a dog's age. Cheer
up, old man, and wipe that tear away, for I see the clouds have rolled
by, Jenny."
"Man, clod, profaner of the shrine of poesy, cease your ignorant
cackle," cried the irate dominie. Silently they bathed faces and hands
in the brook, donned their knapsacks, and took to the road once more.
The clouds had not all passed by as the pedestrians found to their cost,
for, where there are clouds over the bush in July, there also are
mosquitoes. Physically as well as psychically, Wilkinson was
thin-skinned, and afforded a ready and appetizing feast to the
blood-suckers. His companion still smoked his pipe in defence, but for a
long time in silence. "The multitude of flies" made him gurgle
occasionally, as he gazed upon the schoolmaster, whose blue and yellow
silk handkerchief was spread over the back of his head and tied under
his chin. To quote Wordsworth then would have been like putting a match
to a powder magazine. The flies were worst on the margin of a pond
formed by the extension of a sluggish black stream. "Go on, Wilks, my
boy, out of the pests, while I add some water plants to my collection;"
but this, Wilkinson's chivalrous notions of friendship would not allow
him to do. He broke off a leafy branch from a young maple, and slashed
it about him, while the botanist ran along the edge of the pond looking
for flowers within reach. As usual, they were just out of reach and no
more. So he had to take off shoes and socks, turn up the legs of his
trousers, and wade in after them. "Look at that now!" he said with pride
as he returned with his booty, "Nymphæa odorata, Nuphar advena, and
Brasenia peltata; aren't they beauties?"
"What is that black object on your leg?" the dominie managed to gasp.
"I'm thankful to you for saying that, my kind friend, for it's a
murdering leech."
"Salt is the only thing to take them off with," remarked Wilkinson
really interested; "and that is just what we are deficient in."
"I say, Wilks, try a drop of the crater on him; don't waste the
blessings of Providence, but just let the least particle fall on his
nose, while I scrape him off."
The surgical operation succeeded, and the schoolmaster half forgot his
own troubles in doing good to his friend. While the latter was
reclothing his feet, and pressing his specimens, the maple branch ceased
working, and its owner finely apostrophized the field of white and
yellow blossoms.
There sits the water lily like a sovereign,
Her little empire is a fairy world,
The purple dragon-fly above it hovering,
As when her fragile ivory uncurled,
A thousand years ago.
"Bravo, Wilks, if you are poaching on my preserves; but I wish that same
purple dragon-fly would hover round here in thousands for a minute. It's
a pleasure to see them sail along and gobble up the mosquitoes."
The dominie continued:--
To-day I saw the dragon-fly
Come from the wells where he did lie.
An inner impulse rent the veil
Of his old husk; from head to tail
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.
He dried his wings: like gauze they grew,
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew
A living flash of light he flew.
"Hurroo!" cried Coristine, as with knapsack readjusted, he took his
companion by the arm and resumed the journey; "Hurroo again, I say, it's
into the very heart of nature we're getting now. Bless the mosquito and
the leech for opening the well of English undefiled."
Wilkinson was wound up to go, and repeated with fine conversational
effect:--
But now, perplexed by what th' old man had said,
My question eagerly did I renew
How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
He, with a smile, did then his words repeat;
And said, that, gathering leeches far and wide,
He travell'd; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the ponds where they abide.
"Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."
"Dad, if the old man had been here, he might have made his fortune by
this time. 'Stirring thus about his feet the waters of the ponds where
they abide' may be fine employment, but the law's good enough for me,
seeing they're bound to dwindle long by slow decay. You don't happen to
have a scrap on a botanist, do you?"
"Yes," replied the schoolmaster, "and on a blind one, too:--
And he knows all shapes of flowers: the heath, the fox-glove with
its bells,
The palmy fern's green elegance, fanned in soft woodland smells;
The milkwort on the mossy turf his nice touch fingers trace,
And the eye-bright, though he sees it not, he finds it in its place."
"A blind botanist, and in the Old Country, too; well that's strange!
True, a blind man could know the lovely wallflowers and hyacinths and
violets and all these sweet-scented things by their smell. But to know
the little blue milkwort and the Euphrasia by touch, bangs me. If it was
our fine, big pitcher plant, or the ladies' slipper, or the
giant-fringed orchis, or the May apple, I could understand it; but
perhaps he knew the flowers before he got to be blind. I think I could
find my way blindfolded to some spots about Toronto where special plants
grow. I believe, Wilks, that a man couldn't name a subject you wouldn't
have a quotation for; you're wonderful!"
Wilkinson was delighted. This flattery was meat and drink to him.
Holding the arm of his admiring friend, he poured out his soul in verse,
allowing his companion, from time to time, the opportunity of
contributing a little to the poetic feast. The two virtually forgot to
notice the level, sandy road and tame scenery, the clouded sun, the
troublesome flies. For the time being, they were everything, the one to
the other. By their own spirits were they deified, or thought they were,
at the moment.
Though the schoolmaster was revelling in the appreciation of his friend,
he could not fail to perceive that he limped a little. "You have hurt
your foot, Corry, my dear fellow, and never told me."
"Oh, it's nothing," replied the light-hearted lawyer; "I trod on a stick
in that pond where I got the Brasenia and things, and my big toe's a bit
sore, that's all."
"Corry, we have forgotten the blackthorns. Now, in this calm hour,
sacred to friendship, let us present each other with nature's staff, a
walking-stick cut from the bush, humble tokens of our mutual esteem."
Coristine agreed, and the result was a separation and careful scrutiny
of the underbrush on both sides of the road, which ended in the finding
of a dogwood by the lawyer, and of a striped maple by the dominie--both
straight above and curled at the root. These, having removed from the
bush, they brought into shape with their pocket-knives. Then Coristine
carved "F.W." on the handle of his, while Wilkinson engraved "E.C." on
the one he carried. This being done, each presented his fellow with
"this utterly inadequate expression of sincere friendship," which was
accepted "not for its intrinsic worth, but because of the generous
spirit which prompted the gift." "Whenever my eye rests on these letters
by friendship traced," said the dominie, "my pleasant companion of this
happy day will be held in remembrance."
"And when my fingers feel 'E.C.' on the handle," retorted the lawyer,
"I'll be wishing that my dear friend's lot, that gave it me, may be easy
too. Faith but that's a hard pun on an Irishman."
"Seriously, now, Corry, does it give you any satisfaction to be guilty
of these--ah--rhetorical figures?"
"All the delight in the world, Wilks, my boy."
"But it lowers the tone of your conversation; it puts you on a level
with common men; it grieves me."
"If that last is the case, Farquhar, I'll do my best to fight against my
besetting sin. You'll admit I've been very tender of your feelings with
them."
"How's your foot now?"
"Oh, splendid! This stick of yours is a powerful help to it.
Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Shakespeare's songs remind me of young Witherspoon. There was a party at
old Tylor's, and a lady was singing 'Tell me where is fancy bred?' when
young Witherspoon comes up to the piano in a hurry, and says: 'Why,
don't you know?--at Nasmith's and Webb's.'
"Lord! how savage old Tylor was! I thought he would have kicked the
young ass out."
"That is just what we lovers of literature have to endure from the
Philistines. But, Corry, my dear fellow, here is the rain!"
The rain fell, at first drop by drop, but afterwards more smartly,
forcing the pedestrians to take refuge under some leafy pines. There
they sat quietly for a time, till their interest was excited by a deep
growl, which seemed to come round a jog in the road just ahead.
"Is that a bear or a wolf, Corry?" the dominie asked in a whisper.
"More like a wild cat or a lynx," cheerfully responded his friend.
The growl was repeated, and then a human like voice was heard which
quieted the ferocious animal.
"Whatever it is, it's got a keeper," whispered Coristine, "so we needn't
be afraid."
Then the sun shone forth brightly and a rainbow spanned the sky.
"The rainbow comes and goes," said the lawyer, which gave the
schoolmaster occasion to recite:--
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky.
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
"Brayvo, well done, ancore!" cried a cheery and cheeky voice coming
round the jog; "oo'd a thought of meetin' a play hactor 'ere in the
bush! Down, Muggins, down," the latter to a largish and wiry-looking
terrier, the author of the ominous growls.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Wilkinson with dignity, "I have nothing
to do with the stage, beyond admiring the ancient ornaments of the
English drama."
"Hall right, no hoffence meant and none taken, I 'ope. But you did it
well, sir, devilish well, I tell you. My name is Rawdon, and I'm a
workin' geologist and minerologist hon the tramp."
The stranger, who had thus introduced himself, was short, about five
feet five, fairly stout, with a large head covered with curly reddish
hair, his whiskers and goatee of the same hue, his eyes pale grayish,
his nose retroussé, and his mouth like a half-moon lying on its back. He
was dressed in a tweed suit of a very broad check; his head was crowned
with a pith hat, almost too large even for it; and he wore gaiters. But,
what endeared him to the pedestrians was his knapsack made of some kind
of ribbed brown waterproof cloth.
"Either of you gents take any hinterest in science?" he asked affably,
whereupon the schoolmaster took it upon himself to reply.
"I, as an educationist, dabble a little in geology, mineralogy, and
palæontology. My friend is a botanist. You are Mr. Rawdon. Allow me, Mr.
Rawdon, to introduce my friend Mr. Eugene Coristine, of Osgood Hall,
Barrister, and my humble self, Farquhar Wilkinson, of the Toronto
Schools."
Mr. Rawdon bowed and shook hands, then threw himself into a stage
attitude, and said: "His it possible that I am face to face with
Farquhar Wilkinson, the describer of a hentirely new species of
Favosites? Sir, this is a perroud day for a workin' geologist. Your
servant, Dr. Coristine!"
"I'm no doctor, Mr. Rawdon," replied the lawyer, a bit angrily; "I
passed all my examinations in the regular way."
"Hif it's a fair question, gents, ware are you a goin'"? asked the
working geologist.
"We intend, if nothing intervenes, to spend the night at the village of
Peskiwanchow," answered Wilkinson, whose heart warmed to the knapsack
man that knew his great discovery.
"Beastly 'ole!" remarked Mr. Rawdon; "but, as I'm a long way hoff
Barrie, I'll go there with you, if Mr. Currystone is hagreeable. I don't
want to miss the hopportunity of making your better hacquaintance, Dr.
Wilkinson."
"I am sure that my friend and I will be charmed with your excellent
society, as a man, a fellow pedestrian and a lover of science," the
dominie effusively replied.
"Well, Muggins, we're a-goin' back, hold dog, along o' two gents as
haint above keepin' company wi' you and me," whereat Muggins barked and
sought to make friends with his new companions. Coristine liked Muggins,
but he did not love Muggins' master. Sotto voce, he said: "A cheeky
little cad!"
Mr. Rawdon and Wilkinson forged on ahead. Coristine and Muggins brought
up the rear.
"What are you working at now, Mr. Rawdon?" asked the schoolmaster.
"I'm workin' hup the Trenton and Utica, the Udson River and Medina
formations. They hall crop hup between 'ere and Collin'wood. It's the
limestone I'm hafter, you know," he said, sinking his voice to a
whisper, "the limestone grits, dolomites, and all that sort of thing.
Wen I can get a good grinstun quarry, I'll be a made man."
"Grinstun?" queried Wilkinson, helplessly.
"Yes, you know, g, r, i, n, d, s, t, o, n, e, grinstun, for sharpenin'
tools on; turn 'em with a handle and pour water on top. Now, sir, hevery
farm 'ouse 'as got to 'ave a grinstun, and there's 'ow many farm 'ouses
in Canidy? wy, 'undreds of thousands. You see, there's money in it. Let
me find a grinstun quarry and I'm a made man. And wot's more, I've found
the grinstun quarry."
"You have? Where?" asked the dominie.
The working geologist drew off, and playfully planted the forefinger of
his right hand on the side of his upturned nose, saying "Walker!" Then
he relented, and, reapproaching his companion, said: "Honour bright,
now, you're no workin' geologist, lookin' out for the blunt? You're a
collector of Favosites Wilkinsoma, Stenopora fibrosa, Asaphus
Canadensis, Ambonychia radiata, Heliopora fragilis, and all that rot,
ain't you now?"
"I certainly seek to make no money out of science, and am a lover of the
fossil records of ancient life in our planet, but, above all, I assure
you that I would no more think of betraying your confidence than of
picking your pocket. If you have any doubts, do not make me your
confidant."
"Hall right, hold cock, I mean, my dear sir. You're safe has a church.
There's a 'undred hacre lot hup in the township of Flanders, has full
of grinstuns as a hegg's full of meat. It belongs to a Miss Do
Please-us, but who the dooce she is, I dunno. That's just wot I'm
a-goin' to find hout. If she hain't paid her taxes, bein' hon the
non-resident roll, I maybe hable to pick hup the land for less than ten
dollars, and it'll bring me hin tens of thousands. Then I'll skip back
to hold Hingland and cut it fat."
Coristine was not so taken up with Muggins that he failed to overhear
the conversation. He did not catch it all, but he learned that a lady, a
maiden lady, whose name mediated between Jewplesshy and Do Please, owned
valuable mineral lands, of which the working geologist intended to
deprive her by unfair means. Miss Do-Please-us was nothing to him, but
justice was something, and the man Rawdon was an unutterable cad. How
Wilkinson could take any pleasure in his society he could not
understand. He had a good mind to chuck the dominie's stick into the
next creek and let it float to Jericho. He did throw it away along the
road, but Muggins brought it back. Deserted by his bosom friend for a
common, low down cad like that; Oh, by Jove! He strode along in silence,
while Muggins, his only friend, came and rubbed himself against his leg.
No, he would not give in to fate in the shape of a Rawdon. He had
important secrets regarding the welfare of two women, that Providence
seemed to have thrown in his way, in his possession. If Wilks turned
traitor, he could break the pact, and make one of these women happy.
Pity he wasn't a Turk to take care of the pair of them. Night had
fallen, but the moon shone out and the stars, and it was very pleasant
walking, if only Wilkinson would give the least hint that he was
conscious of his friend's existence. But the schoolmaster was happy with
the mining adventurer, who knew his man well enough to mix a few fossils
with the grinstuns.