A MELANCHOLY TALE.
The Scottish settlers in Nottawasaga were respectable, God-fearing, and
though somewhat stern in their manners, thoroughly estimable people on
the whole. They married young, had numerous families, and taught their
children at an early age the duties of good citizenship, and the
religious principles of their Presbyterian forefathers.
Among them, not the prettiest certainly, but the most amiable and
beloved, was Flora McDiarmid, a tall, bright-complexioned lass of
twenty, perhaps, who was the chief mainstay of her widowed father, whose
log shanty she kept in perfect order as far as their simple resources
permitted, while she exercised a vigilant watch over her younger
brothers and sisters, and with their assistance contrived to work their
four acre allotment to good advantage.
Wherever there was trouble in the settlement, or mirth afoot, Flora was
sure to be there, nursing the sick, cheering the unhappy, helping to
provide the good things for the simple feast,--she was, in fact, the
life of the somewhat dull and overworked community. Was the minister
from afar to be received with due honour, was the sober church service
to be celebrated in a shanty with becoming propriety--Flora was ever on
hand, at the head of all the other lassies, guiding and directing
everything, and in so kindly and cheerful a way that none thought of
disputing her behests or hesitating at their fulfilment.
Such being the case, no wonder that Malcolm McAlmon and other young
fellows contended for her hand in marriage. But Malcolm won the
preference, and blithely he set to work to build a splendid log shanty,
twenty-five feet square, divided into inner compartments, with windows
and doors, and other unequalled conveniences for domestic comfort new to
the settlement; and when it was ready, and supplied with plenishings of
all kinds, Flora and Malcolm were married amid the rejoicings of the
whole township, and settled quietly down to the steady hard work of a
life in the extreme backwoods, some miles distant from our clearing.
The next thing I heard of them was many months afterwards, when Malcolm
was happy in the expectation of an heir to his two hundred acre lot, in
the ninth or tenth concession of the township. But alas! as time stole
on, accounts were unfavourable, and grew worse and worse. The nearest
professional man lived at Barrie, thirty-four miles distant. A wandering
herb doctor, as he called himself, of the Yankee eclectic school, was
the best who had yet visited the township, and even he was far away at
this time. There were experienced matrons enough in the settlement, but
their skill deserted them, or the case was beyond their ability. And so
poor Flora died, and her infant with her.
The same day her brother John, in deep distress, came to beg us to lend
them pine boards enough to make the poor dead woman a coffin. Except the
pine tree which we had cut down and sawn up, as related already, there
was not a foot of sawn lumber in the settlement, and scarcely a hammer
or a nail either, but what we possessed ourselves. So, being very sorry
for their affliction, I told them they should have the coffin by next
morning; and I set to work myself, made a tolerably handsome box,
stained in black, of the right shape and dimensions, and gave it to them
at the appointed hour. We of course attended the funeral, which was
conducted with due solemnity by the Presbyterian minister
above-mentioned. And never shall I forget the weeping bearers,
staggering under their burthen through tangled brushwood and round
upturned roots and cradle holes, and the long train of mourners
following in their rear, to the chosen grave in the wilderness, where
now I hear stands a small Presbyterian church in the village of
Duntroon.