basketry, weaving, lace and bead making, pottery, and needlework
generally. Prizes are offered annually in the different centres for the
best work, and all articles submitted are afterwards placed on sale in
one of their work depositories. This association is doing a splendid
work, in that they are making the arts both honourable and profitable.
While this article has chiefly concerned itself with the domestic and
peaceful pursuits of our Canadian girls, it must not be forgotten that
in times of stress they have shown themselves to be heroines who have
always been equal to their occasions.
Our favourite heroine is, perhaps, Madeleine de Verchères, who, in the
early days when the Indians were an ever-present menace to the settlers
on the St. Lawrence River, successfully defended her father's seignory
against a band of savage Iroquois.
Her father had left an old man of eighty, two soldiers, and Madeleine
and her two little brothers to guard the fort during his absence in
Quebec.
[Sidenote: A Girl Captain]
One day a host of Indians attacked them so suddenly they had hardly time
to barricade the windows and doors. The fight was so fierce the soldiers
considered it useless to continue it, but Madeleine ordered them to
their posts, and for a week, night and day, kept them there. She taught
her little brothers how to load and fire the guns so rapidly that the
Indians were deceived and thought the fort well garrisoned.
When a reinforcement came to her relief, it was a terribly exhausted
little girl that stepped out to welcome them at the head of the
defenders--Captain Madeleine Verchères, aged fourteen!
Yes, we like to tell this story of Madeleine over and over.
We like to paint pictures of her, too, and to mould her figure in
bronze; for we know right well that she is a type of the strong, brave,
resourceful lassies who in all ranks of our national life, may ever be
counted upon to stand to their posts, be the end what it may.
Gentlemen, hats off! The Canadian girl!
[Sidenote: Evelyne resented the summons to rejoin her father in New
Zealand. Yet she came to see that the call to service was a call to true
happiness.]
"Such a Treasure!"
BY
EILEEN O'CONNELL
"Evelyne, come to my room before you go to your singing lesson. I have
had a most important letter from your father; the New Zealand mail came
in this morning."
"Can I come now, Aunt Mary?" replied a clear voice, its owner appearing
suddenly at the head of the stairs pinning on to a mass of sunny hair a
very large hat. "I want to go early, for if I arrive first, I often get
more than my regular time, and you know how greedy I am for new songs."
Mrs. Trevor did not reply; she walked slowly into her morning-room and
stood at the window looking perplexed and serious, thinking nothing
about her niece's lessons, and looking at, without seeing, the midsummer
beauty of her garden. A few minutes later the door opened, and she
turned to the young girl, who with a song on her lips danced merrily
into the room.
At the sight of Mrs. Trevor's face she stopped suddenly, exclaiming,
"Something is wrong! What has happened?"
"You are right, Eva, something has happened--something, my child, that
will affect your whole life." With a falter in her voice the woman
continued, "You are to leave me, Evelyne, and go out to New Zealand. You
are needed in your father's house."
[Sidenote: "I Refuse to Go!"]
"To New Zealand?--I refuse to go."
"You have no choice in the matter, dearest. Your mother has become a
confirmed invalid, and is incapable of looking after the children and
the house. Your father has naturally thought of you."
"As a kind of servant to a heap of noisy boys, half of whom I never have
seen even. I daresay it would be very convenient and very cheap to have
me. However, I shall not go to that outlandish place they live at in New
Zealand, and you must tell father so."
"But I cannot, Evie. There is no choice about it. Your parents have the
first claim on you, remember."
"I deny that," said the girl passionately; "they cared so little about
me that they were ready to give me to you and go to New Zealand without
me; that fact, I think, ends their claims. And Auntie, having lived here
for eight years, and being in every way happy, and with so much before
me to make life worth living, how can they be so selfish as to wish to
ruin my prospects and make me miserable?"
"Eva, Eva, don't jump to conclusions! Instead of believing that the
worst motives compelled your father's decision, think it just possible
that they were the highest. Put yourself out of the question for the
moment and face facts. Your parents were _not_ willing to part with you;
believe me, it was a bitter wrench to both to leave you behind. But
settling up country in the colony was not an easy matter for my brother
with his delicate wife and four children. Marjory was older than you, so
of course more able to help with the boys, and knowing that his expenses
would be very heavy and his means small, I offered to adopt you; for
your sake, more than other considerations, I think, my offer was
accepted. Since Marjory's death your mother has practically been alone,
for servants are scarce and very expensive. Now, poor soul, her
strength is at an end; she has developed an illness that involves the
greatest care and rest. You see, darling, that this is no case for
hesitation. The call comes to you, and you must answer and do your duty
faithfully."
The girl buried her face in the sofa cushions, her hat lay on the floor.
"I hate children--especially boys," she said sullenly when she spoke.
"Surely in eight years a doctor ought to be able to make enough to pay a
housekeeper, if his wife can't look after his house."
"You don't understand how hard life is sometimes, or I think you would
be readier to take up part of a burden that is dragging down a good and
brave man."
"To live in an uncivilised country, where probably the people won't
speak my own language----"
"Don't betray such absurd ignorance, Eva," replied Mrs. Trevor; "you
must know that New Zealand is a British colony, inhabited mainly by our
own people, who are as well educated and as well mannered as ourselves."
"And just when I was getting on so well with my singing! Mr. James said
my voice would soon fill a concert hall, and all my hopes of writing and
becoming a known author--everything dashed to the ground--every longing
nipped in the bud! Oh! it is cruel, cruel!"
"I knew, dear child, that the blow would be severe; don't imagine that
it will be easy for me to give you up. But knowing what lies before us,
the thing to do is to prize every hour we are together, and then with
courage go forward to meet the unknown future. The boys are growing
up----"
"Hobbledehoys, you may be sure."
Mrs. Trevor smiled, but said nothing. "And in addition to them, there is
the baby sister you have never seen."
"And never wish to," added Eva ungraciously.
"We shall have much to think of, and when once you have become used to
the idea, I should strongly advise you to settle to some practical work
that will help when you are forced to depend on yourself."
Eva did not reply. Mentally she was protesting or blankly refusing to
give up her life of ease, of pleasures, and congenial study in exchange
for the one offered her in the colony.
"Friends of your father are now home and expect to return in September;
so, having arranged for you to accompany them, we must regard their
arrangements as time limit. It is always best to know the worst, though,
believe me, anticipation is often worse than realisation."
The sword had fallen, cutting off, as Evelyne Riley was fully convinced,
every possibility of happiness on earth so far as she was concerned.
Time seemed to fly on fairy wings; Mrs. Trevor made all necessary
preparations, and before Evelyne realised that her farewell to England
must be made, she stood on the deck of the outgoing steamer "Waimato" at
the side of a stranger, waving her hand forlornly to the woman whose
heart was sore at parting with one she had learned to look upon as her
own child.
[Sidenote: In New Zealand]
Six weeks later, Eva landed at Wellington. The voyage had not interested
her much, and she was glad to end it. She had read somewhere that it was
usual to wear old clothes on board, but for landing to choose smart and
becoming ones, and Eva had bestowed quite some thought on the subject.
Her dark serge lay at the bottom of her trunk, and for the important
occasion she decided on her most cherished frock and the new hat, which
in Richmond she had worn on high-days and holidays. Certainly she looked
very attractive. Almost sixteen, tall and very fair, Eva was a beautiful
girl, and as the eyes of Dr. Riley fell on her, he wondered in amazement
at the change that had taken place in the pale, slight child he had left
with his sister. Could this really be Evelyne? If so, how was she going
to suit in the simple surroundings to which she was going? He gazed in
dismay at the expensive clothes and fashionable style of one who soon
would need to patch and darn, to bake and cook, run the house on
practical lines, and care for children.
Somewhat nervous and much excited, Eva allowed herself to be kissed and
caressed, asking after her mother in a constrained fashion, for, try as
she would, she bore a grudge against one who was the cause of her
changed life.
A shadow overcast the doctor's face as he replied, "Your dear mother
will not welcome you at our home as we had hoped. She lies very ill in a
hospital at present, awaiting a severe operation, the success of which
may save her life--God grant it may--but the boys and Babs are wild with
excitement and longing to see you. We ought to reach 'Aroha' before they
are in bed. It is only nine o'clock, and we can go part of the way by
train; then we shall have a long buggy drive through the bush."
That day Eva never forgot. Travelling with one who was practically a
stranger to her and yet her nearest relative, the girl felt embarrassed.
She wanted to hear about her future surroundings and ask questions about
the children, but she found it hard to disguise her disappointment in
having to leave her old home and to pretend enthusiasm about her
brothers and sister; she feared that her father would read her thoughts
and be hurt and offended, so relapsed into silence. Once they left the
railway they said goodbye to civilisation, Eva felt positive.
The country was at its loveliest; the early summer brought a beauty of
its own. Rains had washed every leaf and refreshed each growing thing.
Great trees, veritable giants, reared their heads proudly towards the
sky, bushes were in full leaf, the ground on either side of the road was
carpeted with thick moss that had grown for long years without being
disturbed. From out of a cloudless sky the sun shone brilliantly, and
the travellers gladly exchanged the high-road for the shelter of the
bush. The day was undoubtedly hot, and Eva in her holiday raiment felt
oppressed and weary before the carriage came in sight of the first
houses that comprised the growing little township in which her father
held an important position as medical man.
The style of house brought a curve of contempt to the girl's lips, but
she offered no opinions. Suddenly, without a remark, her father checked
the horses, as a small group came to a halt in the middle of the road
and began waving their hats and shouting wildly.
"There's a welcome for you, Eva!"
"Who are they? I mean--how did those boys know I was coming?"
"They are your brothers, dear; jolly little chaps every one of them,
even though they are a bunch of rough robins."
Eva shivered; her brothers--those raggety tags!
They presented a picturesque though unkempt appearance. Jack was eating
a slice of bread and jam; Dick had Babs--somewhat in a soiled condition
from watering the garden--on his back; Charlie, the incorrigible, with a
tear in his knickers and a brimless hat on the back of his curly head,
was leaping about like an excited kangaroo.
[Sidenote: "An Impossible Crowd!"]
The doctor held out his arms to the three-year-old little girl, who
looked shyly at the pretty lady and then promptly hid her face. Eva's
heart sank; she knew she ought to say or do something, but no words of
tenderness came to her lips. The child might be attractive if clean, but
it looked neglected, while the boys were what she described as
"hobbledehoys." "An impossible crowd," she decided with a shudder, and
yet her life was to be spent in their midst.
"Leave your sister in peace, you young rascals!" said the doctor; "she
is tired. Dick, put on the kettle; Eva will be glad of some tea, I know.
Welcome home, dear daughter. Mother and I have longed for you so often,
and my hopes run high now that you have come. I trust you will be a
second mother to the boys and Babs."
"I will try," Eva replied in a low voice.
Her father noticed her depression, so wisely said little more, but going
out to see a patient, left her to settle into her new surroundings in
her own fashion.
Next morning Eva wakened early and looked out of her window, which was
shaded by a climbing rose that trailed right across it. The house was
boarded and shingled, one little piece of wood neatly overlapping the
other; it was only two stories high, with deep eaves and a wide verandah
all around it.
Breakfast once over, Eva made a tour of the rooms, ending up in the
kitchen, accompanied, of course, by all the boys and Babs at her heels.
Uncertain what to do first, she was much astonished at a voice
proceeding from the washhouse saying in familiar fashion, "Where on
earth are you all?" There had been no knock at the door, no bell
rung--what could it mean?
Standing unconcernedly in the middle of the room unrolling an apron
stood a little woman of about forty years.
"Good day to you, Eva; hope you slept well after your journey. Come out
of the pantry, Jack, or I'll be after you."
"May I ask whom I am talking to?" asked Eva icily, much resenting being
addressed as "Eva."
"I am Mrs. Meadows, and thought I'd just run in and show you where
things are. You'll feel kind of strange."
"Of course it will take some time to get used to things, but I think I
should prefer doing it in my own way, thank you."
"Perhaps that would be best," replied Mrs. Meadows. "To-day is baking
day; can you manage, do you think?"
"I suppose I can order from the baker?"
The woman smiled. "'Help yourself' is the motto of a young country, my
dear; every one is her own cook and baker, too. Let me help you to-day,
and by next week things will seem easier, and you will be settled and
rested. Your mother is my friend; for her sake I'd like to stand by you.
Will you tidy the rooms while I see to the kitchen?"
Fairly beaten, Eva walked upstairs, hating the work, the house, and
everything in general, and Mrs. Meadows, whom she considered forward, in
particular.
The next three days were trials in many ways to the doctor's household,
himself included. The meals were irregular, the food badly cooked, but
the man patiently made allowances, and was silent. It was a break in the
monotony of "sweep and cook and wash up" when Sunday arrived and the
family went to church. The tiny building was nearly filled, and many
eyes were turned on the newcomer. But she noticed no one. The old
familiar hymns brought tears to her eyes, and her thoughts stole away
from her keeping to the dear land beyond the seas. However, she rallied
and joined heartily in the last hymn, her voice ringing out above all
others.
When next she saw Mrs. Meadows the conversation turned to church and
congregation. After telling her details she thought were interesting,
Mrs. Meadows said, "You have a nice voice, Eva, but you mustn't strain
it."
[Sidenote: Eva's Top Notes]
"Do you think I do?" she replied. "I was trained at the Guildhall
School, and I suppose my master knew the limits of my voice. _He_
approved of my top notes. Perhaps you don't know what the Guildhall
School is, though," she added insolently.
"On the contrary, my father was one of the professors until he died.
Don't think that in New Zealand we are quite ignorant of the world,
Eva."
The conversation upset the girl sadly. She was vain of her voice and
anxious to make the most of it. She went into the kitchen to make a pie,
heedless that Jack had found a jar of raisins and was doing his best to
empty it as fast as he could, and that Charlie was too quiet to be out
of mischief. The paste was made according to her ability, certainly
neither light nor digestible, and was ready for the oven, when suddenly
a giggle behind her made her turn to behold that wretched boy Charlie
dressed in her blue velvet dress, best hat, and parasol.
"You wicked boy, how dare you?" she cried, stamping her foot, but the
boy fled, leaving the skirt on the floor. Picking it up, she gave chase
to recover the hat, and when at last she returned to her pie, she found
that Jack had forestalled her and made cakes for himself out of it and a
marble tart for her.
Eva did not trust herself with the boys that morning; she literally
hated them. Still, she must master herself before she could master them,
and show once and for all that she was able to deal with the situation.
Shutting herself into the parlour, she sat quiet, trying to think and
plan, but in vain--she could not calm herself.
She took up a book and attempted to read and forget her annoyances in
losing herself in the story, but that, too, failed. Her trials were
countless. Not sufficient were to be found in the house, but that
interfering Mrs. Meadows must criticise her singing.
She opened the piano, determined to listen to herself and judge what
truth there was in the remark. She ran over a few scales, but was
interrupted by a rough-looking man shouting, "Stop that noise, and come
here! It'd be better if you looked after the bits of bairns than sit
squealing there like a pig getting killed. Don't stare so daft; where's
yer father?"
Eva rose in anger, but going up to the man, words died on her lips--her
heart seemed to stand still, for in his arms he held Babs, white and
limp.
"What has happened--is she dead?"
"Don't know; get her to bed." But Eva's hands trembled too much to move
them, so the old Scotch shepherd pushed her aside, muttering, "Yer
feckless as yer bonny; get out of the way." Tenderly his rough hands
cared for the little one, undressing and laying her in her bed.
"She's always after the chickens and things on our place, and I think
she's had a kick or a fall, for I found her lying in a paddock."
"Where were you, Eva? Hadn't you missed Babs? I thought at any rate she
would be safe with you," said her father.
Eva's remorse was real. Her mother dying, perhaps, the children
entrusted to her, and she--wrapped up in herself and her own
grievances--what use was she in the world? But oh! if Babs were only
spared how different she would be! If she died, Eva told herself, she
would never be happy again.
She went downstairs wretched and helpless, and once more found Jessie
Meadows in possession of the kitchen. "How is Babs?"
"Conscious, I think--but I don't know," and the girl buried her face and
wept passionately.
"There, there, Eva, we've all got to learn lessons, and some are mighty
hard. Take life as you find it, and don't make trouble. The change was a
big one, I know, but you'll find warm hearts and willing hands wherever
men and women are. I just brought over a pie and a few cakes I found in
my pantry----"
"I can't accept them after being so rude."
[Sidenote: A Short Memory]
"Were you rude, dear? A short memory is an advantage sometimes. But
we'll kiss and be friends, as the children say, and I will take turns
with you in nursing Babs."
What Eva would have done without the capable woman would be hard to say,
for the child lay on the borders of the spirit land for weeks. When the
crisis was past her first words were, "Evie, Evie!" and never before had
Eva listened with such joy and thankfulness to her name. The child could
not bear her out of sight; "pretty sister" was doctor, nurse, and mother
in one. Unwearied in care, and patient with the whims of the little
one, she was a treasure to her father, whose harassed face began to wear
a happier expression.
"I have great news to tell," he began one evening when, with Babs in his
arms and the boys hanging around in their usual fashion, they were
sitting together after tea.
"Tell, tell!" shouted the audience; but the doctor shook his head, while
his eyes rested on Eva.
"Is it about mother?" she whispered, and he nodded.
"Mother is well, and coming home."
"Mother's coming back!" was echoed throughout the house to the
accompaniment of a war dance of three excited kangaroos until sleep
closed all eyes.
[Illustration: MRS. MEADOWS' BROTHER ARRIVED.]
The day of the arrival was memorable in many ways to the young girl. In
the morning came an invitation to sing at a concert, an hour later Mrs.
Meadows' brother arrived, laden with good things for the returning
invalid, and with a letter from an editor in Wellington, which brought a
flush of delighted surprise to Eva's face.
Mrs. Meadows herself came over later.
"The editor is a friend of mine, Eva," she said; "and in rescuing a
story of yours from Jack, I found him a contributor. Not for what you
have done, but for what I'm certain you can do if you will write of life
and not sentimental rubbish. You are not offended, are you?"
Eva's eyes glistened. "Offended with _you_--_you_ who have laden me with
kindness, and helped me to find all that is worth having in life! I have
learned now to see myself with other eyes than my own."
Eva's doubts were set to rest once and for ever when she saw the frail
mother she had really forgotten, and felt her arms around her as she
said, "My daughter--thank Heaven for such a treasure!"
[Sidenote: Rosette was a girl of singular resolution. Through what
perils she passed unscathed this story will tell.]
Rosette in Peril
A Story of the War of La Vendée
BY
M. LEFUSE
A loud knocking sounded at the door.
"Jean Paulet," cried a voice, "how much longer am I to stand and knock?
Unbar the door!"
"Why, it is Monsieur de Marigny!" exclaimed the farmer, and hurried to
let his visitor in.
"Ah, Jean Paulet! You are no braver than when I saw you last!" laughed
the tall man who entered, wrapped in a great cloak that fell in many
folds. "I see you have not joined those who fight for freedom, but have
kept peacefully to your farm. 'Tis a comfortable thing to play the
coward in these days! And I would that you would give a little of the
comfort to this small comrade of mine." From beneath the shelter of his
cloak a childish face peered out at the farmer and his wife.
"Ah, Monsieur! that is certainly your little Rosette!" exclaimed Madame
Paulet. "Yes, yes, I have heard of her--how you adopted the poor little
one when her father was dead of a bullet and her mother of grief and
exposure; and how, since, you have loved and cared for her and kept her
ever at your side!"
"Well, that is finished. We are on the eve of a great battle--God grant
us victory!" he said reverently--"and I have brought the little one to
you to pray you guard and shelter her till I return again. What, Jean
Paulet! You hesitate? Before this war I was a good landlord to you. Will
you refuse this favour to me now?" asked de Marigny, looking sternly
down on the farmer from his great height.
"I--I do not say that I refuse--but I am a poor defenceless man; 'tis a
dangerous business to shelter rebels--ah, pardon! loyalists--in these
times!" stammered Jean Paulet.
"No more dangerous than serving both sides! Some among this republic's
officers would give much to know who betrayed them, once, not long ago.
You remember, farmer? What if _I_ told tales?" asked de Marigny grimly.
"Eh! but you will not!" exclaimed the terrified man. "No, no! I am safe
in your hands; you are a man of honour, Monsieur--and the child shall
stay! Yes, yes; for your sake!"