DISAPPOINTED HOPES.
The summer of '35 was very wet; a circumstance so unusual on Canada
that I have seen no season like it during my sojourn in the country. Our
wheat crop promised to be both excellent and abundant; and the clearing
and seeding sixteen acres, one way or another, had cost us more than
fifty pounds; still, we hoped to realize something handsome by the sale
of the produce; and, as far as appearances went, all looked fair. The
rain commenced about a week before the crop was fit for the sickle, and
from that time until nearly the end of September was a mere succession
of thunder showers; days of intense heat, succeeded by floods of rain.
Our fine crop shared the fate of all other fine crops in the country; it
was totally spoiled; the wheat grew in the sheaf, and we could scarcely
save enough to supply us with bad, sticky bread; the rest was exchanged
at the distillery for whiskey, which was the only produce which could be
obtained for it. The storekeepers would not look at it, or give either
money or goods for such a damaged article.
My husband and I had worked hard in the field; it was the first time
I had ever tried my hand at field-labour, but our ready money was
exhausted, and the steamboat stock had not paid us one farthing; we
could not hire, and there was no help for it. I had a hard struggle with
my pride before I would consent to render the least assistance on the
farm, but reflection convinced me that I was wrong--that Providence had
placed me in a situation where I was called upon to work--that it was
not only my duty to obey that call, but to exert myself to the utmost to
assist my husband, and help to maintain my family.
Ah, glorious poverty! thou art a hard taskmaster, but in thy
soul-ennobling school, I have received more god-like lessons, have
learned more sublime truths, than ever I acquired in the smooth highways
of the world! The independent in soul can rise above the seeming
disgrace of poverty, and hold fast their integrity, in defiance of
the world and its selfish and unwise maxims. To them, no labour is too
great, no trial too severe; they will unflinchingly exert every faculty
of mind and body, before they will submit to become a burden to others.
The misfortunes that now crowded upon us were the result of no
misconduct or extravagance on our part, but arose out of circumstances
which we could not avert nor control. Finding too late the error into
which we had fallen, in suffering ourselves to be cajoled and plundered
out of our property by interested speculators, we braced our minds
to bear the worst, and determined to meet our difficulties calmly and
firmly, nor suffer our spirits to sink under calamities which energy and
industry might eventually repair. Having once come to this resolution,
we cheerfully shared together the labours of the field. One in heart and
purpose, we dared remain true to ourselves, true to our high destiny as
immortal creatures, in our conflict with temporal and physical wants. We
found that manual toil, however distasteful to those unaccustomed to it,
was not after all such a dreadful hardship; that the wilderness was
not without its rose, the hard face of poverty without its smile. If
we occasionally suffered severe pain, we as often experienced great
pleasure, and I have contemplated a well-hoed ridge of potatoes on that
bush farm,--with as much delight as in years long past I had experienced
in examining a fine painting in some well-appointed drawing-room.
I can now look back with calm thankfulness on that long period of trial
and exertion--with thankfulness that the dark clouds that hung over us,
threatening to blot us from existence, when they did burst upon us, were
full of blessings. When our situation appeared perfectly desperate, then
were we on the threshold of a new state of things, which was born out of
that very distress.
In order more fully to illustrate the necessity of a perfect and
childlike reliance upon the mercies of God--who, I most firmly believe,
never deserts those who have placed their trust in Him--I will give a
brief sketch of our lives during the years 1836 and 1837.
Still confidently expecting to realize an income, however small, from
the steamboat stock, we had involved ourselves considerably in debt, in
order to pay our servants and obtain the common necessaries of life; and
we owed a large sum to two Englishmen in Dummer, for clearing ten more
acres upon the farm. Our utter inability to meet these demands weighed
very heavily upon my husband's mind. All superfluities in the way of
groceries were now given up, and we were compelled to rest satisfied
upon the produce of the farm. Milk, bread, and potatoes, during the
summer became our chief, and often, for months, our only fare. As to tea
and sugar, they were luxuries we would not think of, although I missed
the tea very much; we rang the changes upon peppermint and sage, taking
the one herb at our breakfast, the other at our tea, until I found an
excellent substitute for both in the root of the dandelion.
The first year we came to this country, I met with an account of
dandelion coffee, published in the _New York Albion_, given by a Dr.
Harrison, of Edinburgh, who earnestly recommended it as an article of
general use.
“It possesses,” he says, “all the fine flavour and exhilarating
properties of coffee, without any of its deleterious effects. The plant
being of a soporific nature, the coffee made from it when drank at night
produces a tendency to sleep, instead of exciting wakefulness, and
may be safely used as a cheap and wholesome substitute for the Arabian
berry, being equal in substance and flavour to the best Mocha coffee.”
I was much struck with this paragraph at the time, and for several years
felt a great inclination to try the Doctor's coffee; but something
or other always came in the way, and it was put off till another
opportunity. During the fall of '35, I was assisting my husband in
taking up a crop of potatoes in the field, and observing a vast number
of fine dandelion roots among the potatoes, it brought the dandelion
coffee back to my memory, and I determined to try some for our supper.
Without saying anything to my husband, I threw aside some of the
roots, and when we left work, collecting a sufficient quantity for, the
experiment, I carefully washed the roots quite clean, without depriving
them of the fine brown skin which covers them, and which contains the
aromatic flavour, which so nearly resembles coffee that it is difficult
to distinguish it from it while roasting. I cut my roots into small
pieces, the size of a kidney-bean, and roasted them on an iron
baking-pan in the stove-oven, until they were as brown and crisp as
coffee. I then ground and transferred a small cupful of the powder to
the coffee-pot, pouring upon it scalding water, and boiling it for a few
minutes briskly over the fire. The result was beyond my expectations.
The coffee proved excellent--far superior to the common coffee we
procured at the stores.
To persons residing in the bush, and to whom tea and coffee are very
expensive articles of luxury, the knowledge of this valuable property
in a plant, scattered so abundantly through their fields, would prove
highly beneficial. For years we used no other article; and my Indian
friends who frequented the house gladly adopted the root, and made me
show them the whole process of manufacturing it into coffee.
Experience taught me that the root of the dandelion is not so good, when
applied to this purpose, in the spring as it is in the fall. I tried
it in the spring, but the juice of the plant, having contributed to the
production of leaves and flowers, was weak, and destitute of the fine
bitter flavour so peculiar to coffee. The time of gathering in the
potato crop is the best suited for collecting and drying the roots of
the dandelion; and as they always abound in the same hills, both may
be accomplished at the same time. Those who want to keep a quantity for
winter use may wash and cut up the roots, and dry them on boards in the
sun. They will keep for years, and can be roasted when required.
Few of our colonists are acquainted with the many uses to which this
neglected but most valuable plant may be applied. I will point out a
few which have come under my own observation, convinced as I am that the
time will come when this hardy weed, with its golden flowers and curious
seed-vessels, which form a constant plaything to the little children
rolling about and luxuriating among the grass, in the sunny month of
May, will be transplanted into our gardens, and tended with due
care. The dandelion planted in trenches, and blanched to a beautiful
cream-colour with straw, makes an excellent salad, quite equal to
endive, and is more hardy and requires less care.
In many parts of the United States, particularly in new districts where
vegetables are scarce, it is used early in the spring, and boiled with
pork as a substitute for cabbage. During our residence in the bush
we found it, in the early part of May, a great addition to the
dinner-table. In the township of Dummer, the settlers boil the tops, and
add hops to the liquor, which they ferment, and from which they obtain
excellent beer. I have never tasted this simple beverage, but I have
been told by those who use it that it is equal to the table-beer used at
home.
Necessity has truly been termed the mother of invention, for I contrived
to manufacture a variety of dishes almost out of nothing, while living
in her school. When entirely destitute of animal food, the different
variety of squirrels supplied us with pies, stews, and roasts. Our barn
stood at the top of the hill near the bush, and in a trap set for such
“small deer,” we often caught from ten to twelve a-day.
The flesh of the black squirrel is equal to that of the rabbit, and the
red, and even the little chissmunk, is palatable when nicely cooked. But
from the lake, during the summer, we derived the larger portion of our
food. The children called this piece of water “Mamma's pantry,” and
many a good meal has the munificent Father given to his poor dependent
children from its well-stored depths. Moodie and I used to rise by
daybreak, and fish for an hour after sunrise, when we returned, he to
the field, and I to dress the little ones, clean up the house, assist
with the milk, and prepare the breakfast.
Oh, how I enjoyed these excursions on the lake! The very idea of our
dinner depending upon our success, added double zest to our sport.
One morning we started as usual before sunrise; a thick mist still hung
like a fine veil upon the water when we pushed off, and anchored at our
accustomed place. Just as the sun rose, and the haze parted and drew up
like a golden sheet of transparent gauze, through which the dark woods
loomed out like giants, a noble buck dashed into the water, followed by
four Indian hounds.
We then discovered a canoe, full of Indians, just below the rapids, and
another not many yards from us, that had been concealed by the fog.
It was a noble sight, that gallant deer exerting all his energy, and
stemming the water with such matchless grace, his branching horns held
proudly aloft, his broad nostrils distended, and his fine eye fixed
intently upon the opposite shore. Several rifle-balls whizzed past him,
the dogs followed hard upon his track, but my very heart leaped for joy
when, in spite of all his foes, his glossy hoofs spurned the opposite
bank and he plunged headlong into the forest.
My beloved partner was most skilful in trolling for bass and muskinongé.
His line he generally fastened to the paddle, and the motion of the oar
gave a life-like vibration to the queer-looking mice and dragon-flies
I used to manufacture from squirrel fur, or scarlet and white cloth, to
tempt the finny wanderers of the wave.
When too busy himself to fish for our meals, little Katie and I ventured
out alone in the canoe, which we anchored in any promising fishing spot,
by fastening a harrow tooth to a piece of rope, and letting it drop from
the side of the little vessel. By the time she was five years old, my
little mermaid could both steer and paddle the light vessel, and catch
small fish, which were useful for soup.
During the winter of '36, we experienced many privations. The ruffian
squatter P----, from Clear Lake, drove from the barn a fine young bull
we were rearing, and for several weeks all trace of the animal was lost.
We had almost forgotten the existence of poor Whiskey, when a neighbour
called and told Moodie that his yearling was at P----'s, and that he
would advise him to get it back as soon as possible. Moodie had to
take some wheat to Y----'s mill, and as the squatter lived only a mile
further, he called at his house; and there, sure enough, he found the
lost animal. With the greatest difficulty he succeeded in regaining his
property, but not without many threats of vengeance from the parties who
had stolen it. To these he paid no regard; but a few days after, six fat
hogs, on which we depended for all our winter store of animal food, were
driven into the lake, and destroyed. The death of these animals deprived
us of three barrels of pork, and half starved us through the winter.
That winter of '36, how heavily it wore away! The grown flour, frosted
potatoes, and scant quantity of animal food rendered us all weak, and
the children suffered much from the ague.
One day, just before the snow fell, Moodie had gone to Peterborough for
letters; our servant was sick in bed with the ague, and I was nursing my
little boy, Dunbar, who was shaking with the cold fit of his miserable
fever, when Jacob put his honest, round, rosy face in at the door.
“Give me the master's gun, ma'am; there's a big buck feeding on the
rice-bed near the island.”
I took down the gun, saying, “Jacob, you have no chance; there is but
one charge of buck-shot in the house.”
“One chance is better nor none,” said Jacob, as he commenced loading the
gun. “Who knows what may happen to oie. Mayhap oie may chance to kill
'un; and you and the measter and the wee bairns may have zummut zavory
for zupper yet.”
Away walked Jacob with Hoodie's “Manton” over his shoulder. A few
minutes after, I heard the report of the gun, but never expected to see
anything of the game; when Jacob suddenly bounced into the room, half
wild with delight.
“Thae beast iz dead az a door-nail. Zure, how the measter will laugh
when he zees the fine buck that oie a' zhot.”
“And have you really shot him?”
“Come and zee! Tis worth your while to walk down to the landing to look
at 'un.”
Jacob got a rope, and I followed him to the landing, where, sure enough,
lay a fine buck, fastened in tow of the canoe. Jacob soon secured him by
the hind legs to the rope he had brought; and, with our united efforts,
we at last succeeded in dragging our prize home. All the time he was
engaged in taking off the skin, Jacob was anticipating the feast that we
were to have; and the good fellow chuckled with delight when he hung the
carcass quite close to the kitchen door, that his “measter” might run
against it when he came home at night. This event actually took place.
When Moodie opened the door, he struck his head against the dead deer.
“What have you got here?”
“A fine buck, zur,” said Jacob, bringing forward the light, and holding
it up in such a manner that all the merits of the prize could be seen at
a glance.
“A fine one, indeed! How did we come by it?”
“It was zhot by oie,” said Jacob, rubbing his hands in a sort of
ecstacy. “Thae beast iz the first oie ever zhot in my life. He! he! he!”
“You shot that fine deer, Jacob?--and there was only one charge in the
gun! Well done; you must have taken a good aim.”
“Why, zur, oie took no aim at all. Oie just pointed the gun at the deer,
and zhut my oeys an let fly at 'un. 'Twas Providence kill'd 'un, not
oie.”
“I believe you,” said Moodie; “Providence has hitherto watched over us
and kept us from actual starvation.”
The flesh of the deer, and the good broth that I was able to obtain from
it, greatly assisted in restoring our sick to health; but long before
that severe winter terminated we were again out of food. Mrs. ---- had
given to Katie, in the fall, a very pretty little pig, which she
had named Spot. The animal was a great favourite with Jacob and the
children, and he always received his food from their hands at the door
and followed them all over the place like a dog. We had a noble hound
called Hector, between whom and the pet pig there existed the most
tender friendship. Spot always shared with Hector the hollow log which
served him for a kennel, and we often laughed to see Hector lead Spot
round the clearing by his ear. After bearing the want of animal food
until our souls sickened at the bad potatoes and grown flour bread, we
began--that is the eldest of the family--to cast very hungry eyes upon
Spot; but no one liked to propose having him killed. At last Jacob spoke
his mind upon the subject.
“Oi've heard, zur, that the Jews never eat pork; but we Christians dooz,
and are right glad ov the chance. Now, zur, oi've been thinking that'tis
no manner ov use our keeping that beast Spot. If he wor a zow, now,
there might be zome zenze in the thing; and we all feel weak for a
morzel of meat. S'poze I kill him? He won't make a bad piece of pork.”
Moodie seconded the move; and, in spite of the tears and prayers of
Katie, her uncouth pet was sacrificed to the general wants of the
family; but there were two members of the house who disdained to eat a
morsel of the victim; poor Katie and the dog Hector. At the self-denial
of the first I did not at all wonder, for she was a child full of
sensibility and warm affections, but the attachment of the brute
creature to his old playmate filled us all with surprise. Jacob first
drew our attention to the strange fact.
“That dog,” he said, as we were passing through the kitchen while he was
at dinner, “do teach uz Christians a lesson how to treat our friends.
Why, zur, he'll not eat a morzel of Spot. Oie have tried and tempted him
in all manner ov ways, and he only do zneer and turn up his nose when
oie hould him a bit to taste.” He offered the animal a rib of the fresh
pork as he finished speaking, and the dog turned away with an expression
of aversion, and on a repetition of the act, walked from the table.
Human affection could scarcely have surpassed the love felt by this poor
animal for his playfellow. His attachment to Spot, that could overcome
the pangs of hunger--for, like the rest of us, he was half starved--must
have been strong indeed.
Jacob's attachment to us, in its simplicity and fidelity, greatly
resembled that of the dog; and sometimes, like the dog, he would push
himself in where he was not wanted, and gratuitously give his advice,
and make remarks which were not required.
Mr. K----, from Cork, was asking Moodie many questions about the
partridges of the country; and, among other things, he wanted to know
by what token you were able to discover their favourite haunts. Before
Moodie could answer this last query a voice responded, through a large
crack in the boarded wall which separated us from the kitchen, “They
always bides where they's drum.” This announcement was received with a
burst of laughter that greatly disconcerted the natural philosopher in
the kitchen.
On the 21st of May of this year, my second son, Donald, was born. The
poor fellow came in hard times. The cows had not calved, and our bill
of fare, now minus the deer and Spot, only consisted of bad potatoes and
still worse bread. I was rendered so weak by want of proper nourishment
that my dear husband, for my sake, overcame his aversion to borrowing,
and procured a quarter of mutton from a friend. This, with kindly
presents from neighbours--often as badly off as ourselves--a loin of
a young bear, and a basket, containing a loaf of bread, some tea, some
fresh butter, and oatmeal, went far to save my life.
Shortly after my recovery, Jacob--the faithful, good Jacob was obliged
to leave us, for we could no longer afford to pay wages. What was owing
to him had to be settled by sacrificing our best cow, and a great many
valuable articles of clothing from my husband's wardrobe. Nothing is
more distressing than being obliged to part with articles of dress
which you know that you cannot replace. Almost all my clothes had been
appropriated to the payment of wages, or to obtain garments for the
children, excepting my wedding-dress, and the beautiful baby-linen
which had been made by the hands of dear and affectionate friends for
my first-born. These were now exchanged for coarse, warm flannels,
to shield her from the cold. Moodie and Jacob had chopped eight acres
during the winter, but these had to be burnt off and logged-up before we
could put in a crop of wheat for the ensuing fall. Had we been able to
retain this industrious, kindly English lad, this would have been soon
accomplished; but his wages, at the rate of thirty pounds per annum,
were now utterly beyond our means.
Jacob had formed an attachment to my pretty maid, Mary Pine, and
before going to the Southern States, to join an uncle who resided in
Louisville, an opulent tradesman, who had promised to teach him his
business, Jacob thought it as well to declare himself. The declaration
took place on a log of wood near the back door, and from my chamber
window I could both hear and see the parties, without being myself
observed. Mary was seated very demurely at one end of the log, twisting
the strings of her checked apron, and the loving Jacob was busily
whittling the other extremity of their rustic seat. There was a long
silence. Mary stole a look at Jacob, and he heaved a tremendous sigh,
something between a yawn and a groan. “Meary,” he said, “I must go.”
“I knew that afore,” returned the girl.
“I had zummat to zay to you, Meary. Do you think you will miss oie?”
(looking very affectionately, and twitching nearer.)
“What put that into your head, Jacob?” This was said very demurely.
“Oie thowt, maybe, Meary, that your feelings might be zummat loike my
own. I feel zore about the heart, Meary, and it's all com' of parting
with you. Don't you feel queerish, too?”
“Can't say that I do, Jacob. I shall soon see you again,” (pulling
violently at her apron-string.)
“Meary, oi'm afeard you don't feel like oie.”
“P'r'aps not--women can't feel like men. I'm sorry that you are going,
Jacob, for you have been very kind and obliging, and I wish you well.”
“Meary,” cried Jacob, growing desperate at her coyness, and getting
quite close up to her, “will you marry oie? Say yeez or noa.”
This was coming close to the point. Mary drew farther from him, and
turned her head away.
“Meary,” said Jacob, seizing upon the hand that held the apron-string,
“do you think you can better yoursel'? If not--why, oie'm your man. Now,
do just turn about your head and answer oie.”
The girl turned round, and gave him a quick, shy glance, then burst out
into a simpering laugh.
“Meary, will you take oie?” (jogging her elbow.)
“I will,” cried the girl, jumping up from the log, and running into the
house.
“Well, that bargain's made,” said the lover, rubbing his hands; “and
now, oie'll go and bid measter and missus good-buoy.”
The poor fellow's eyes were full of tears, for the children, who loved
him very much, clung, crying, about his knees. “God bless yees all,”
sobbed the kind-hearted creature. “Doan't forget Jacob, for he'll neaver
forget you. Goodbuoy!”
Then turning to Mary, he threw his arms round her neck, and bestowed
upon her fair cheek the most audible kiss I ever heard.
“And doan't you forget me, Meary. In two years oie will be back to marry
you; and maybe oie may come back a rich man.”
Mary, who was an exceedingly pretty girl, shed some tears at the
parting; but in a few days, she was as gay as ever, and listening
with great attention to the praises bestowed upon her beauty by an old
bachelor, who was her senior by five-and-twenty years. But then he had
a good farm, a saddle mare, and plenty of stock, and was reputed to have
saved money. The saddle mare seemed to have great weight in old Ralph
T----h's wooing; and I used laughingly to remind Mary of her absent
lover, and beg her not to marry Ralph T----h's mare.