[A]These rapids were known to old settlers as “Palmer’s rapids.” The quarrying of them for building purposes has greatly changed their appearance.
Early next day Jeanie and her mother saw a short, stout man emerge from the woods. He was a stranger to them, but his aspect indicated he was a lumberman. He had a towsy head of reddish hair and a matted beard and whiskers of the same hue.
“A pleasant day, ma’am,” he said, in a voice sosoft and insinuating, and contrasting so strikingly with the roughness of his appearance, that Mrs Morison was somewhat startled. “It is, indeed, a fine spring day,” she replied.
“And the water is high, ma’am, and the rafts are getting away finely—oh, very finely,” and the man stood complacently eyeing the mother and daughter, and rubbing his hands.
“Hae ye seen ocht o’ my husband? Ye’ll hae come about him?”
“Oh, my dear ma’am, don’t fret; take it coolly and comfortable like.”
“I see ye ken aboot him; oh, dinna play wi’ me, but tell me at once.”
Not in the least discomposed, the little man, in more oily tones than ever, replied, “Well, well, ma’am, there is no denying it, accidents will happen, you know. You shouldn’t be supposing the worst, and taking it easy, for”—
Before he could finish his sentence there was heard a heavy trampling in the woods, and soon there came from beneath their cover half a dozen men, four of them carrying a burden laid on two poles. They came in silence to the door, when Mrs Morison saw their burden was her husband. She snatched away the red handkerchief that covered his face, a glance at which showed her he was dead. She gave a shriek that resounded through the forest, and fell senseless upon the corpse.
The career of the dead man may be told in a few words. He had been the son of a small farmer in the south of Scotland, a strapping, lively fellow, who won the good graces of the daughter of a draper in the neighboring village. Her parents opposed her keeping company with him, not merely because his circumstances were indifferent but because his habits were not of the steadiest, he being fond of convivial gatherings, at which, more than once, he had got overcome by drink. Their opposition seemed only to strengthen their daughter’s affection for the free-hearted, good tempered young fellow, and the upshot was, that one morning she was not to be found, and before evening they learned she had been married. The imprudent match resulted as the parents had anticipated; the young man was unequal to the task of supporting a wife and his habits did not mend. Moving to a mining village, he got work as a laborer, and out of his scanty earnings a large percentage went into the till of the whisky shop every Saturday night, so that his wife, to eke out a living, had to exert herself to do something also. Quietly and uncomplainingly she took in sewing, washed, or spun, as opportunity offered, to earn an honest shilling, and did what lay in her power to keep things decent. Children came but none lived to maturity save Jeanie. The village was unhealthy, its fumes and murky smoke were not favorable to childhood, typhus was a regularwinter visitor, and, more than all, the narrow means at her disposal afforded not the necessaries of life in the abundance children need, so, to her heart-sorrow, one after another was taken away. Time passed, and her father died, leaving her a small legacy, and with this she determined they should emigrate. She fondly thought were her husband removed from his boon companions, were all his old associations broken, and he transplanted into a new sphere, he might reform. Often had she striven with him, often had hope kindled in her bosom that he was going to keep the good resolutions he so often formed; always doomed to bitter disappointment. To emigrate was the last chance, it seemed to her, and for Canada they accordingly sailed. Deplorable to relate, on the day of their arrival at Quebec her husband got drunk with several of his fellow-passengers who went to take, as they termed it, a parting glass, and before he got over his spree the greater part of their little stock of money was gone. Instead, therefore, of being in a position to go to Upper Canada and take up land, as intended, he had to engage at Quebec with a lumberman who was getting out masts and square timber on the Chateaugay, and thus it came that, two years before the opening of our narrative, he had made a home, a poor one as we have seen, in what is now the township of Elgin. Altho their privations were great, Mrs Morison did not regret the change fromthe dirty, squalid, mining village in Scotland to the lonely woods of Canada. Her husband had fewer opportunities of getting drink and, on the whole, they lived happily. Possessing a superior education herself and having moved before her marriage in respectable society, she brought up her daughter very differently from what might have been expected from their circumstances, and Jeanie, despite her home-spun dress, had acquirements and manners that qualified her to move in any station of life. As already stated, on the Monday morning Morison had gone to assist in running logs out of the creek. On the evening of the succeeding day his employer settled with him for the season’s work, and, in addition to the small balance of wages that was coming to him, gave him a few pieces of pork to take home and, fatal parting gift, a bottle of rum. He left the raftsmen in high spirits, an able-bodied if not very active man, taking the track that led to his humble dwelling. What followed no human eye witnessed. He never reached his home, and the searching-party that morning had discovered his body a few yards from the creek, stretched upon the ground, with his face immersed in a pool of water—a pool only an inch or so in depth, left by the melting of the snow and gathered in a cavity formed by the roots of a tree. Had he, when he stumbled and fell, moved his head ever so little, he would have breathed and lived. The morethan half empty bottle, found in his stony grasp, showed he had been too overcome to stir a hairsbreadth, and there, in a basin of water, so small that a squirrel could have leaped it; so shallow that a robin, in pruning his wings, could have stepped through without wetting a feather; this stalwart man, before whose axe the loftiest pines had fallen and whose vigorous oar had stemmed the rapids of the Chateaugay, had ignominiously met his death, within hail of the faithful wife and loving daughter who were anxiously waiting his return. Jeanie, in going home the preceding evening, had unconsciously passed within a few paces of the body which once contained her father’s spirit. On finding it, damp from the exposure of a day and two nights, the searching party had made the body as presentable as possible, and sent ahead one of their number to break, as gently as might be, the news to the wife and daughter. With what success he, who was chosen on account of his smooth tongue, acquitted himself, the reader knows.
So long did Mrs Morison remain in her swoon that once the dreadful thought darted through Jeanie’s mind that she was not going to recover, and at one fell swoop she was to be deprived of both parents. She did not cease her exertions, however, and while bathing the rigid temples she rejoiced to see the flush of returning animation. Slowly did Mrs Morison raise herself to a sittingposture, and looked in a dazed manner, as if wondering why they were there, at the rough lumbermen grouped around her, who stood in silence and with the awkwardness of people who were anxious to help but did not know how. Unconsciously she moved her glance from one to the other until it fell upon the body of her husband. Recollection returned in a flash, and drawing the inanimate form to her lap she pressed the bloated and discolored features to her lips.
“Oh, Willie,” she exclaimed, unconscious in her overwhelming passion of sorrow that there was a listening ear, “lang did we ken ane anither and braw and gallant were you ance; my pride and joy. Sair hae oor trials been and muckle hae ye been misguided, but aye faithfu and true to me. Oh, that I had been wi’ you; oh, that ye had given me your last kiss and deed in my arms! There hae been them wha despised you, wha tauld me to leave you; little did they ken o’ the love that bound me to you. Oh, that we should hae partit thus!”
Here she paused, and turning her eyes upwards she slowly and reverently said: “Merciful God, as in your wise decree you have been pleased to bring this affliction upon me, grant, in your pity, that I tarry not long behind him whom ye hae taen awa.”
The solemn petition calmed the tumult of her mind, and reverently disposing of the body, she rose to her feet and said modestly—
“You will excuse me, freens, for taking on sae sairly afore you, but I couldna help it; this misfortune has come so sudden. I thank you for what you hae dune, and, gin it be your pleasure, as you can do nae mair noo, leave us alane and come the morn to bury him wha’s gane.”
The red-whiskered man was about to make a voluble reply, when he was cut short by a tall lumberman, in whose eye there glistened a tear, with the remark, “Yes, ma’am, we are at your service and mean to do all we can for you.” Then, looking at his comrades, he said, “Let us go,” and turning abruptly he led the way, leaving the mother and daughter alone with their dead.
It is true in the moral world as in the material that after a storm comes a calm. The agony of suspense, the wild burst of passionate sorrow had swept over them, and the morning succeeding the sad discovery found mother and daughter composed and resigned. The worst was now known, a worst there was no remedying, and so they bowed, without needless fret or repining, beneath the trial. The sun had risen in an unclouded sky and his beams were warmer than on the preceding days, and as they came pouring down unstintingly on the turbid waters of the creek and the uplifted branches of the forest, it seemed as ifsummer was nigh and buds and leaves and green sward would speedily succeed the birds whose noisy concert ushered in the rosy dawn. Everything had been arranged in the humble shanty with all the deftness of order-loving hands; on one side of it, beneath a white cloth, was the corpse. Mrs Morison was seated on the chair at the window; Jeanie sat at her feet on the doorstep.
“Wasna father a braw man when you first foregathered?”
“He was the handsomest lad in the countryside; a very pleasure for the ee to rest on. Little dae they ken what he was like that didna see him then, and a kinder or truer heart couldna be. O, Jeanie, I just worshipped him when we were lad and lass.”
“But your father didna like him?”
“Dinna put it that way, Jeanie. He liked him but he saw a faut in him that spoiled a’. I was wilfu. I said Willie would gie up the company he keepit when he was merrit, and that it was guid-fellowship and no love o’ the drink that enticed him. I dinna say that I regret what I did, or that my lot hasna been as guid as I deserved—God forgive me that I should repine or say an unkindly word o’ him that lies there—but young folks dinna lippen to their parents in choosing partners as they ocht.”
“Hoots, mother; when a lad or lass hae foundtheir heart’s love, what for suld father or mother interfere?”
“Easy said, Jeanie, but think ye there is ony body in the wide world loes son or dochter as a parent does? They are as the apple o’ their ee, and his or her happiness is all they seek. Dootless there are warld’s worms o’ parents who only look to the suitor’s gear and wad break off the truest love-match that ever was gin he were puir. I dinna speak o’ them, for they are out o’ the question. But take parents by ordinar, who only seek their bairns’ welfare, and the son or dochter wha disregards their advice in choosing a life-mate will hae mickle to repent o’.”
“I dinna see hoo that is,” said Jeanie, “for surely their marriage concerns only themselves?”
“True in a sense, Jeanie, that as we mak oor bed we maun lie on’t. Think ye, though, o’ a parent’s experience, that nae glamor o’ love blinds their ee, that their haill concern is for their bairn’s happiness, and they may see fauts in the would-be partner o’ their child that can only result in meesery. Young folks shouldna think their parents are obstinate or stupid when they oppose their marrying this ane or that ane. In maist cases they hae solid reason for their opposition, and the son is foolish that winna get his parents consent before he gangs too far and the dochter silly indeed who says Yes without taking counsel o’ her mother.”
“Oh, but that wadna dae always,” replied Jeanie, deprecatingly, in a tone as if such a course would rob love of its romance.
“Come, noo, Jeanie, tell me what better adviser can a dochter hae than her mother, and hasna the father a richt to hae some say in a match seeing that, if it disna turn out weel, he may hae a useless son-in-law to sorn on him or, in his auld days, hae his dochter or a tawpy of a son’s wife come wi’ a wheen bairns to seek shelter in his hame? Na, na, the first commandment wi’ promise requires obedience in this as in ither callings o’ life, and happy is the wedding whaur the true love o’ the young couple is crooned wi’ the blessings (given without a misgiving) o’ their parents, for there is, then, a reasonable prospect that the match will prove what a’ should be—a heaven upon earth.”
“Mightna the parents be mistaen, mother?”
“Aye, and so might the lad or lass, and far mair likely that the young should err than the auld. Had I taen the advice my father and mother pressed on me, advice that came frae their lifelong experience and their affection for me, it wad hae been different—no that I regret what has happened for mysel but for you, Jeanie, that maun grow up in this wilderness, and for your brithers and sisters wha hae gane to a better land.” And here, as the remembrance of the years of poverty and of wretchedness caused by her husband’s intemperate habits flashed upon her, she burst into tears.
“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Jeanie, as rising and standing beside her she clasped her bowed head to her bosom, “dinna tak on so. I wadna hae had it otherwise, and wad suner hae bided wi’ you than had the queen on the throne for my mother. We hae been very happy for a’ that has come and gone, and sae will we yet. Were it to part us, I wadna marry the best man in a’ Canada; I will aye be wi’ you and will aye be obedient to your will.”
“I ken that, my bairn, but,” said the mother, raising her tear-stained face, “promise me this—and it is a promise that him wha lies there wad hae backed, for weel he kent his ain faut—that, nae matter hoo ye may be drawn to him, you will never marry a man that likes his glass.”
“I promise,” said Jeanie with simple solemnity, and drawing up her graceful figure to its full height, she, as if anxious to break off the subject, turned to get a wet towel, with which she wiped her mother’s face, “for,” as she remarked, “ye maun be decent when the folk come.”
It was nigh noon before any of the visitors made their appearance. In the then unsettled state of the country news spread slowly even when messengers were sent out expressly to carry it. Everybody came that heard of the melancholy occurrence, for in those primitive days, when only the young and healthy inhabited this section of country, deaths were so rare that a funeral wasregarded as an important event which nobody missed. Straggling in from different points they came in twos and threes, except the lumbering-party with whom the deceased had been connected, who appeared in a body marching up the creek, carrying the coffin—a rude box of unplaned boards—with Mr Palmer leading. Two features in the assemblage were noticeable, one being that hardly a man among them had a coat, the other the fewness of the women. The men, great brawny fellows in home-made shirts and pants fastened by belts, gathered in clusters in the clearing to exchange news and talk over the circumstances attending the event that had brought them together, while the women went into the house. The sun was sinking fast towards the west before the preparations necessary for the burial were completed. When the word went round that the grave was ready, one by one they fyled into the house to take a last look of the face of their late neighbor, after which the lid of the coffin was nailed down. There was no clergyman to be had at the time and among those present there was no one inclined, even if capable, to conduct religious services. If the solemn observances of such occasions were absent, those present had not come unprepared to maintain a custom which in those days was universal in Canada, and, for all the writer knows, may still be in the Mother Country—that of passing a glass of liquor before lifting thecoffin. A man, with a jar in one hand and a tin cup in the other, went round the company, tendering the filled cup to each, which it would have been bad manners to refuse and which nearly all emptied before returning. When all out of doors had been helped, the man, a well-meaning, kindly fellow, stepped into the shanty to regale those inside. Thinking it good manners, he pressed to where Mrs Morison was sitting and, deliberately filling the cup to the brim, tendered it to her first.
Mrs Morison gave him a piercing look. “What!” she exclaimed in a low voice, so emphasized by deep feeling that every word sunk into the minds of those present; “What! Do you ask me to take that which has murdered my husband?”
“Take a taste, ma’am,” said the red-whiskered man, who was in the room, “it will do you good.”
“Do me good!” she re-echoed, “then it will be for the first time in my life. That do me good that took away the bread for lack of which my bairns, noo saints in glory, perished! That do me good that robbed my husband of his usefulness and good name; that made him fit for only orra jobs and to be despised as a drunkard! That do me good the love of which supplanted his love for me, for it was the stronger o’ the twa or wad he no hae left it alane for my sake? That do me good that filled his bosom with remorse, which hurt his health, and, last of all, has taen his life! Oh, that it hasna caused the loss of his soul; that,in the moment of his passing breath, he found time to seek acceptance with God for the Redeemer’s sake! Take it away,” she screamed with the energy of one who shrinks at the sight of a snake, “take it away, and may the curse of the widow and the orphan rest upon them that make and sell it—wha tempt decent men to destruction in order that they may have an easy living.”
Abashed at so unexpected a reception, the man continued to stand stupidly before her, holding the cup and jar. Seeing his puzzled look, Mrs Morison, who had recovered her composure, quietly said, “I ken you mean it kindly, and sae far I thank you, but gin you think o’ it, you will see that the bottle may be your own worst enemy and they are safest and happiest who leave it alane. As a favor, freen, I ask you no to offer it in this house.”
A few minutes afterwards the coffin was borne out of doors, when four lumberers lifted it on their shoulders, and, leading the straggling procession, walked to the grave, which had been dug on a knoll close to the creek, the only spot that could be found convenient sufficiently free of trees and their roots. When the coffin was lowered, each man lifted his hat for a moment, there was a pause, and then the grave was filled in.
With thoughtful kindness those who came had brought some gift of food to replenish the widow’s larder, and now, while all the rest departed, thelumbermen remained, until sunset, chopping firewood and putting the house and its surroundings to rights, so that, before they lay down to sleep that night, Mrs Morison and Jeanie included in their prayer thanks to God for having so bountifully provided for them.
You have heard of my passing a night in the bush, and want me to tell you about it. When we came to Hinchinbrook, which was in July, 1831, the shanty my husband put up did not stand where this house is, but on a ridge at the end of the lot. For the first two years we had no neighbor nearer than half a mile, for though the lots on each side of us were granted, nobody was then living upon them. From morning to dark I saw nothing but the bush that encircled our house and the little clearance of blackened stumps. Oh, but it was lonely! It was worse than a jail, for the prisoner gets a blink out of his cell window of the wide prospect without, and of houses and people, but I saw nothing for several years but trees, and trees, until our clearance so extended that it met that on the east side of our lot, and all at once we, one fine day, came in sight of a neighbor’s house. The second Spring we were on the lot, my husband left to help to take a raft down to theBasin, leaving me alone with Henry, who was then the baby. He expected to be back in four days, or by the end of the week at furthest. If it had not been that I had so much work to do I would have cried my eyes out, it was so miserable to be left alone in the woods, and William had never been away so long before. The four days passed and Sabbath came, but he did not. I got very anxious, and all day could scarcely keep my eyes off the spot at which he would come out of the bush, and where the track from the river crossed our lot, and at night I could not sleep a wink, thinking every moment I heard his footstep. Once I was sure I heard him moving outside. I got up and opened the door and called his name. There was no answer, and it was so dark I could not see a rod off. Lighting a bit of pitch pine at the fire, I held it up to look again, when there was a patter of feet and something bounded by me. It was sugar-time and there were a few trees tapped around the house. The noise I heard was a few deer drinking the sap out of the troughs. I knew not what to do. I wanted to go in search of William, but how could I leave our small stock? They might starve before I got back, and that would ruin us. It happened Monday afternoon, just when I had determined to go over to the nearest neighbor and see if I could get some one to go and enquire for my husband, though I knew it would be useless, for every man and boy oldenough had gone with the rafts. I was wrapping baby in a shawl, when the door darkened and a strange voice bade me good day. It was that of a young lad from the second concession. He was on his way home, and had a message from William. In running Dumouchel’s rapids the raft had bunted on a stone, throwing her crew off their feet. In falling, William’s oar had struck his left arm and broken it. I thanked God it was no worse. He told the boy I was not to be anxious, that he felt so well he hoped to be able to leave for home in a few days. I questioned the lad, and from what he told me, I guessed my husband was worse than he let on. My resolution was made; I would go and see him. The lad said he had to go home first, but promised to come back next morning and tend the stock until I returned. Before going, I got him to fell a few saplings for the young beasts to browse on their tops, for the fodder was nearly done. Then I prepared for my journey; cooking enough to keep the lad while away, and baking some cakes to take to my husband. It would be past 5 o’clock in the afternoon when I was ready to leave, but I considered I would be able to reach the Chateaugay before dark, and once on its banks I would be safe to get a night’s rest. With baby in my arms I started brave enough, but had not gone many acres in the woods until I felt I had acted rashly. I had gone over the path only a few times and never alone, so that I was not sowell acquainted with it as I thought I was, and, from the snow having newly melted, it was not as plain as usual. I pressed on until I felt that I had walked so far that, if on the right track, I should have reached the river, while I had not even come to the Outarde. The sunlight had long left the treetops and the stars had begun to glimmer, when I gave it up, convinced that, likely in going to one side to pass a wet spot, I had left the track, and that I was lost in the woods. Assured I had lost my way, I knew it would be madness to walk farther, and so, while I could see, I picked out a hemlock knoll, and choosing a big hemlock that had some cedar bushes growing near, I sat down beneath it. It was not very cold, though in the clearances I daresay there was frost. Taking a cake out of my pocket I made my supper. Baby was very good and lay asleep in his shawl. Wrapping him more warmly in the long plaid I had around my shoulders, I clasped him to my bosom and, so wearied was I, that I fell asleep. I awoke with a start. I thought I heard some one calling. I listened and the sound soon came again. It was the cry of a wolf at some distance. Another answered from some other part of the woods, and another and another. You have noticed, on a calm night, how, if a dog barks, every dog within hearing answers; it is the same with wolves, only their cries are more varied, ranging from a deep howl to a whine like that of a childin pain. I shuddered for my babe, who still slept, and, kissing him, resolved I should die before the brutes would reach him. For a long time I sat and listened, until the cries died away, from the beasts apparently hurrying to some distant point in pursuit of their prey. I again slept, how long I do not know, but was awakened by something warm stroking my cheek. It was our dog licking my face. I had shut him in the house to be a watch on it, but he had broken out some way and, scenting my steps, had overtaken us. I was so desolate and lonesome, and so glad to have Collie’s company, that my heart leaped with happiness as he cuddled down beside me and would not give over licking my hands and face for very joy. I should be ashamed to tell it, but, sir, a good dog is better than a false friend, and Collie was a most faithful beast. After that I slept with confidence, and it was good daylight when I awoke, cold and stiff with my first and last night’s rest in the woods, but refreshed and confident. I would not touch more of my cakes, for I wanted them for my husband, so, thanking God for preserving me so far, I went on my way, baby crowing at the sight of Collie, as he gamboled around us with yelps. Marking as well as I could from the way his rays fell, where the sun rose, I went north, for I knew that in that direction I would soon come across the Outarde. Sure enough, I had not gone a quarter of a mile, when I came upon it, flowingred and full, for it was high water. Knowing I was safe, and that I would quickly come upon one of the settlers by its banks, I hurried on in great spirits, and came out on John Hughes’ clearing, and was speedily seated by their blazing log fire at breakfast. My troubles were now over, and I saw that, instead of going north, I had wandered to the east. A little boy went with me to Strachan’s, where I crossed the Chateaugay, and resuming my walk got to the house, near Ste Martine, where my husband lay, in the afternoon. It was well I went, for his hurt had brought on a slight fever, and though the habitant’s family were kind, they could not nurse him as I did. These were anxious but happy days, for William was overjoyed to have me beside him, and I was glad to be of service to him. In ten days Dr Syme told me he would bear the journey, and getting a cast in one of Reeves’s canoes as far as the Portage, we were safe back in our own house before night, to find everything better than we expected. It was a drawback William’s arm, for it was some time before he could do hard work with it, but we got over that and many another backset, and, if we are now well-to-do, we earned all we’ve got.
It was wearing on to three o’clock on the first day of the fair, and the crowd was at its height. At a corner of the main building, where the throng was thickest, stood a child, a girl of some four summers, sobbing, not loudly or obtrusively, but with her face buried in her pinafore. The passers-by, intent upon their own pleasure, took no notice of her, until a gaunt, elderly man halted in front of her with the query, “What are you crying for?” “For mama,” said the child raising her tear-stained face from behind her pinafore. “Don’t you know where she is?” “No,” sobbed the little one, “she’s goned away,” and here her grief broke out afresh. Attention being thus directed to the child, the standers-by grew interested. Among them were two young ladies in rather loud costume. “Guess she’s lost,” remarked one of them. “Want toknow?” queried the other, “Ain’t she sweet?” “Some; should say her mother don’t know much; such a looking hat.” “You mightn’t do better, Ethie.” “I’d be sick if I couldn’t.”—“Well, what’s to be done?” asked the man who first noticed the child. “Has anybody seen anybody looking for a little girl?” Nobody had, and then suggestions as to what to do were volunteered. “Ask her name?” was one of them. “What’s your name, sissy?” “Roose,” sobbed the child. “And where do you live?” “With mama.” “And where does she live?” “At home.” “That’s not the way to ask her,” exclaimed a brawny young man, whose lowest whisper would startle a horse, and bending over her he asked, “How did mama come to the fair?” “With me and Toby.” “Is Toby your father?” “No,” said the child, smiling through her tears, “Toby’s a dear little dog.” “Did mama walk to the fair?” “We’s drove in a wagon and Toby too, ever so long ways.” “What’s the name of the place you came from?” The question was beyond the child, who simply shook her head. “Don’t bother her,” interjected a bystander, “get your wagon and drive her round the ground and the mother will see her.” “I can’t very well,” said the man of the loud voice. “My horse has got the gorum, and I want to watch the sheep judges.” “Well, take her home with you; you’ve neither chick nor child.” At this a laugh rose, and suggestions as to what should be done, each moresenseless and impracticable than another, began again. To send her to Grahamie as lost baggage, to seat her in the centre of the horse-ring, at the head of the show-house stairs, with the band, or among the fancy articles, where her mother would be sure to go, were among the more reasonable. Each one was clear that it was the duty of somebody else to exert themselves to find the mother, and each one was equally clear he was not called upon to undertake the task. And so precious time was slipping, and what to do with the child remained undecided. At this juncture, a short and somewhat stout woman broke through the ring. “Hech, what’s a’ this about? A lost bairn, say ye.” Bending over, she lifted the child, and sitting down on a bench pressed her to her bosom. “My bonnie doo, and hae ye lost your mammie! Wha ocht ye?” The child, with staring eyes, answered not. “You might as well speak Greek,” grimly remarked the gaunt man. “Eh, what’s that! Do you think she disna understan the English lang’age? Na, na, thae bonny blue een are no French. An hoo did you lose yer mammie, my pet?” “Mama gave me penny to get candy, and Toby ran after other dog, and I tried to catch Toby but he runned a long way and was bad, and—and—I couldn’t find mama or Toby,” and the recollection of her misfortune renewed her grief. “Eh, ma wee bit lady,” exclaimed the good-hearted woman, as she clasped the sobbing child more closely, “but hoo are we inthis thrang to find Toby or yer mither either. Hech but her heart will be sair for the loss o’ ye. Will na some o’ ye gang and see if ye canna fin a woman lookin’ for her bairn, instead o’ gapin there at us like so mony gomerils.”
“If you’ll give me ten cents I’ll go,” said a pert boy.
“Ha, ha, my man, ye’ll be a Conservative; ye want an office.”
“There’s the president,” remarked one of the bystanders.
“What! yon black-a-vised man wi the bit red ribbon? Hey, Mr Praseedent; come yont: I want yer advice.”
“What’s this; what’s this?” asked the president.
“Jist a lost bairn, an hoo to fin the mother o’t I dinna ken.”
“Couldn’t be in better hands,” said the president.
“She micht be in waur, tho I say’t mysell. But that’s no what I’m drivin at. Hoo am I to get her mither!”
“Oh, that’s not hard to do. You have seen a lamb lose its mother, but did you ever see the ewe that failed to find her? You just sit where you are, and the mother will come along.”
“I’ve seen the ewie seek her bit lammie ower knowe and heugh an never fail to find the wanderer, but what could she do were as mony auld tups thranging roun as are here? Na, na; yer comparison winna stan, Mr Praseedent. Jest tellme what I’m to dae, an no be stanin’ there twirlin yer whisker.”
“I’ll tell you what to do. Take the child home with you; she is tired and not fit to stay here longer. The mother will be sure to come to the office, and I will know where to send her. I’ll take your address,” and he pulled out his notebook.
Glancing at the child, which had fallen asleep on her bosom, the woman kissed the peaceful little face, and replied, “that’s gude advice. Everybody kens me. I’m Mrs Crowdie, and I live on the —— concession of Hinchinbrook, and if ye want to ken mair o’ me ye can speer at that decent man, Mr Herdman, yonner, wha lifts my taxes, and as oor waggin will be ready, I’ll gang noo. Sae gude day to ye.”
Tired with the day’s fatigue and grief, the child did not wake until the wagon halted at Mrs Crowdie’s door, when, seeing everything new and strange, she cried a little for her mother, but was easily soothed, and, on supper appearing, she forgot her little sorrows in satisfying her appetite. Though Mrs Crowdie had much to do “in settin things to richts,” as she termed it, about the house, and scolded the man-servant for “thinkin mair o’ what he saw at the fair than o’ his wark,” she found time to lavish much attention on the waif, so curiously left on her hands, and beguiled the smiles to her cheeks by kindly arts. When itgrew dark, she cried for her mother, but accepting Mrs Crowdie’s promise that “she would see her the morn,” and that she would “let pooshack sleep with her,” she lisped her artless prayer at her knee and, laid in bed, dropped into the land of Nod with her arms around Mrs Crowdie’s big black cat.
Little Roose was up by times next morning, and thought it grand fun to help Mrs Crowdie to milk, to feed the poultry, and to get breakfast ready. Everything was new to her, and enjoyed with such a zest as to show that it was her first taste of country-life. To keep her company, Mrs Crowdie had sent word to her neighbors to let their son come and play with her, and by-and-by Johnnie made his appearance, and the two had a rare time of it. It was in the afternoon, when, tired with play, and to rest and enjoy the pieces Mrs Crowdie gave each of them, they snuggled down behind a clump of bushes in the orchard.
“When I’m a man, Roose, I’ll have sugar on my bread like this all the time.”
“When you’re a man, will you have a horse?”
“Yes; two of them and whiskers too.”
“And a farm like this?”
“A bigger farm than this, an’ a big house an’ a buggy, an’ pigs an’ sheep an’ hens.”
“And may I come to see you?”
“You’ll milk the cows and make butter.”
“Will it be long time ’fore you’re a man?”
“When I’m growed; two or three year; I’m six now.”
“How do cows make butter?”
“My, don’t you know? It ain’t the cows that make the butter, it’s the girls.”
“And will you show me when I’m big?”
“Yes, an lots o’ things.”
“My mama has no cows.”
“Ain’t she! Why, my dad has lots o’ em and a bull, too.”
“I’d be ’fraid.”
“O, you are not a man like me. I could fire a gun an shoot a bear.”
“Has God cows?”
“Why, He makes em, an the horses, an the elephants, an every thing. Don’t you go to Sabbath school?”
“No.”
“My! I went when littler than you, an learnt heaps o’ things, an got raisins and candy at Christmas.”
“Without a penny?”
“Gimme for nothing.”
“My.”
“I was to have spoke a piece but got afraid.”
“I wouldn’t be ’fraid.”
“Oh, that’s nothing; you’re a girl.”
Here the conference was broken by Johnnie’soffering to show where the ground hogs kept house, and off he and his companion trotted to a remote stone-pile, and did not turn up till supper time, when they burst in upon Mrs Crowdie with the appetite of hawks, and the girl so full of the wonders she had seen that her tongue never rested until she became sleepy. When laid away for the night, Mrs Crowdie sat in the gathering gloom to think over what she should do. The day had passed without any one coming to enquire for a lost girl, which very much surprised her. So far as her own inclinations went, she would rather nobody ever came, but she knew that somewhere a poor mother’s heart was in agony over the loss, and she resolved that, next morning, after breakfast she would drive to Huntingdon to find out if there had been any enquiries.
With many injunctions to Roose, that she was to “be a guid bairn till she got back, an no go near the soos or the wall,” Mrs Crowdie next day betook herself to the village, where she arrived in due course and went first to the office of the president to find out whether he had heard aught. Entering she spied through the net-work that surmounted the counter a man in his shirt-sleeves leaning over a desk writing, with his head turned away from her.
“Hey, man!” No response.
“Whar will I find your maister?” No response.
“Whatna ticket is this?” as her eye here fell on a card hung to the wire-netting, and she spelt out slowly, “This—is—my—busy—day. Fegs, by the look o’ him I should say it is. Hey, man!” No response, the man of the big ledger calmly continuing to write.
“Eh, puir chiel!” exclaimed Mrs Crowdie, “he maun hae a hard maister or be dull o’ hearin,” and she thereupon rattled on the counter with her umbrella.
“Oh, were you wanting me. Want to pay your church seat, eh?”
“What na kirk? St Andrew’s, say ye? Na, na, I dinna gang there. Dod! You dinna need to have a seat in ony kirk, for there are a’ kin o’ bodies that ca’ themselves preachers rinnin aboot. Says I to ane that pit maist impertinent questions to me about my saul—an us Scotch folk dinna show our hearts to every Jock and Tam—My man, ye pit me in mind o’ a finger-post, ye pint the way ye dinna gang yoursel. Ye see, I kent ocht o’ him.”
“That’s a good one,” exclaimed the man of the pen as he rubbed his left arm.
“Gin I had my way, there wad be a riddle afore every college door to try the coofs wha wad wag their heids in a poopit. I ken o’ some chuckie heads it wad hae thrown aside.”
“Not a bad idea. And what can I do for you? You’ll want an organ?”
“Me an organ! I’d suner tryst a parritch pat.”
“It’s a nice thing to have a little music, and the young ladies soon learn to play.”
“I’se ken ye noo. I saw ye at the show. Ye can blaw a horn but ye canna blaw my lug. I want to see your maister.”
“What name?”
“My name’s Mrs Crowdie; kent by her neebors as ane that pays as she buys an is due naebody.”
“Oh, yes, I have a memorandum. The boss left word you were not to trouble yourself; it would be all right.”
“I’ll gang hame we nae such assurance. I have come ane errand to see him and I wull see him.”
“We had a fine show, Mrs Crowdie?”
“Whaur’s your maister?”
“What did you think of the flowers?”
“Whaur’s yer maister?”
“Oh, it’s the boss you want.”
“Ay, an I’ll no gang till I see him.”
Calling a chubby-faced lad, he sent him in search, and the desired gentleman soon entered.
“And how are you to-day, Mrs Crowdie?”
“I’ve naething to complain o’ except o’ sin an a touch o’ the rheumatics.”
“And what can we do for you to-day?”
“Ye ken weel my errand, an I see by yer manye’ve something ye dinna want to tell me. Wha’s bairn is she?”
“We’ll speak about that by-and-bye.”
“We’ll speak about it noo.”
“Is the little girl well?”
“The lassie’s weel an I’d be laith to part wi her did I no ken there are they wha hae a better richt to her. Noo, tell me; what hae ye learned about her folks?”
“There have been some enquiries; her people know that she is safe.”
“Wha are they? I’ll gang an see them.”
“There’s no need. You go home and you’ll hear from them.”
A good deal of conversation followed, but Mrs Crowdie could get no particular information about the parents, further than that they were satisfied she was in safe hands, and they would call or send for their child in a short time. Forced to be satisfied with this, she returned home, and when Roose threw her arms round her neck in welcome, she could not forbear the secret wish that the parents might never come. There was some mystery and she hoped that it might result thus. She watched the child pattering about during the afternoon, listened to her prattle, and helped to amuse her, and when the evening gathered, and the sun set beyond the forest, leaving the clouds burning in crimson and gold, she sat with her in her lap. Something in the peaceful scene stirred up oldmemories, and, with thin and quavering voice, the old woman began the 23rd psalm. To her surprise, the child chimed in, knowing both the words and the old world tune Mrs Crowdie sang them to. “Wha taught ye that, ma dawtie?” she asked, as finishing the psalm, she hugged the child in closer embrace, the moisture glistening in her eyes. “Mama,” said the child. “She maun be a guid woman, and a Presbyterian, too.” And clasping the child, Mrs Crowdie sat thinking in silence and did not move into the house until it grew chill, when she said “the bairn micht catch cauld.”
The section of Hinchinbrook in which Mrs Crowdie lives is a very pleasant one to look upon; the landscape being relieved from monotony by low knolls and ridges which break the wide intervales. In the middle of September, the bush, that runs as a straggling and somewhat ragged fringe over the ridges, was still green, with only here and there a branch or tree whose brilliant red foretold the coming glory. The day was bright and warm, the sun’s rays being chastened by the faint smoky haze that softened the distant features of the landscape. Her work being over until milking time came round, Mrs Crowdie took a seat by the open window and began knitting. Her little charge had gone to watch a preposteroushen, which, after being given up as having furnished supper to a fox, had appeared that morning clucking with joy over the solitary chicken that followed her; the yellow hairy little thing a source of delight to the child. While Mrs Crowdie’s fingers moved actively with the needles, her thoughts were wandering away to the past. The advent of the child had stirred her nature and wakened memories, she knew not how, that she had stifled so long ago that she thought they were dead. And to judge by her face, they were not pleasant memories. Casually raising her head, she was astounded to see a woman standing at the door intently watching her; a comely woman, neatly dressed.
“What’s brocht you back?” demanded Mrs Crowdie, breaking silence, “I told you I was dune wi’ you; that gin ye had made yer bed, you could lie on it.”
“O, mother!”
“Na, ye needna beg; gin that useless man ye wad marry in spite o’ me, has failed to provide for you, you maun look for help anither gate.”
“I have not come to beg; we have made ends meet so far.”
“Ay, by your wark. A fauchless, smooth-tongued haveril; hoo he threw a glamor ower ye I ken na.”
“You are too sore on him.”
“Ower sair! A useless being that wad talk anflee round the kintry, an dae onything but wark. To think that ye wad prefer sic na ane to yer ane mither, you ungrateful hussy. But its aye the way; the best o’ women get the lavins o’ men.”
“It’s not for me to listen to such talk of my husband,” said the daughter, coloring.
“A bonny husband! Merry’t ye, thinking he could hang up his hat in my hoose and sorn on me. My certie, I sorted him! Gang back to yer husband an wark yer finger-nails aff to make up for his laziness. You made your choice, an I’m dune with baith you an him.”
Resentment struggled in the breast of the young woman with affection; it was for a moment only; her better nature triumphed.
“I have not come, mother, to ask of you anything but your love and”—
“An what?” asked the mother, in a voice shrill from suppressed emotion, “Did I no nestle you in my bosom an care for you as dearer than my life? When, ane by ane, your brithers an sisters gaed awa an you were left the ae lam oot o’ the flock; when God in his providence took your faither to Himsel an I was left alane, it was you that gied me heart to wrastle wi’ the warl, an I watched ower you an thocht you wad be a prop to my auld age. Oh, hoo could ye have the heart to leave me?”
“I love you better than I ever did, mother, but you wouldn’t think much of me as a wife were I to say I did wrong in marrying.”
“Aye, there it is; the shuffling creature wi his sleek manners that cam between you an me.”
“Oh, mother, leave that alone. I am sorry to have vexed you today. I never meant to trouble you, until you saw fit to send for me or I thought you needed my help.”
“An what has brocht ye, then?”
“I’ve come for Ruth.”
The old woman sank back in her chair in speechless astonishment. At last she whispered, “An she’s your bairn! I thocht there was something aboot her that was familiar to me: that explains it a’. She’s yerself ower again when ye were a bit toddler. O that thae days were back again! An hoo did ye lose her?”
“It’s six years since I left you, mother, and my heart wearied among the Yankees to see dear old Huntingdon again. I watched the Gleaner when the show was to be, and arranging to be away a fortnight I came with Ruth and stayed with cousin on the river. I saw you at the show, but you did not see me. In the crowd I lost Ruth. I was here and there seeking for her, when a man told me he had seen a little girl, dressed like mine, in a wagon that drove towards the village. I followed and found he was wrong. Thinking she had driven home with our friends, I hastened to cousin’s, but she was not there. What a night I spent! Next morning I went back to the show grounds, and was struck dumb when the presidenttold me where she was. I explained it all to him. He was very kind and said if I would leave it in his hands he would manage it; when you came in he would put you off for a day or two. Last night he sent me word things had worked well, and I was to go out to you myself. If there is any plot about it to bring us together without your will, it’s none o’ mine,” and sinking before her mother she buried her head in her lap and wept.
What Mrs Crowdie would have done; whether her resentment would have returned and she again have driven away her daughter, God alone knows, but at this juncture the patter of little feet was heard on the gallery and Ruth, with her pinafore full of golden-rod, came shouting, “See what I have got.” One glance at the tearful face upraised to see her, and there was a glad scream of “Mama.” Clasping her child and grandchild in her arms, Mrs Crowdie broke down. “It’s the Lord’s wark; nane save Himsel could hae brocht us thus thegither, an I’se no fecht against His will. By a lost child I’ve found my ain, an we’ll never pairt. Ay, my bonny Ruth, I’m your grannie, and ye’ll bide we me, an help me tak care o’ the hens an the turkeys, and the lave.”
“And, papa.”
“I’ll thole him for your sake; maybe I have wranged him in my prejudices. We’ll sen for him.”
“An Toby, too?”
“That’s cousin’s dog, Ruth,” said her mother, smiling in her joy.
“Ay, Ruth,” said Mrs Crowdie, “we’ll get the dowg too, and we’ll let byganes be byganes and begin a new life an ther’ll no be a happier family in a’ Hinchinbrook. Eh, hoo true’s the Scripter in mair senses than ane. An a little child shall lead them. Hech, but this’ll no dae. There’s the nock chappin five, an the coos are comin up the lane, an the fire’s to kinle. Let’s be steerin an get the wark dune an then we’ll hae supper ance mair thegither.”
You want to see the little buk I have? An who tould you about it? You’ll do it no harm. Maybe you won’t get the chance. It’s not the likes of you that should have it. You’ve driven from Huntingdon on purpose and sure I won’t disappoint you. I didn’t ax you to come, did I? You’ll print it. Yis, what suits you: laving out all that tells how we poor Catholics were used in Ireland. Honor bright, you’ll print every word of the little buk. Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t, but it is not to everybody I would give a reading of my poor nevy’s book, and, if you plaze, we’ll say no more about that same. Well, then, I might tell you what I saw myself at the favor sheds. Did you ever know anybody who seen a ghost like to talk about it? I tries to forgit what I saw and heard, an thank nobody that brings me in mind o’t. Come now, I’ll tell you a bettor shtory than about poor women and childer a dyin by the score of favor an strongmen alayin aside them too wake to git thim a cup o’ wather. An its a thrue story, which is more than can be said about some you’ve prented. Whin I wint to William Bowron to buy my lot, I paid my money down for’t in goold. He wrote my ticket for the lot an’ whin he hands it to me, says he, Now you’ve got a farrum, my man, you’ll want a cow. Thrue for you, says I, I had always a cow in Ireland an my father afore me. Confound it all, says he, then you must have one in Canada; I have a heifer that’ll suit you. Gittin aff his chair, he placed his stick across his back and hooked his elbows over it, an tuk me into his yard, where he pointed to a beauty av a crathur. How much? says I. Three pounds, says he, Done, says I, an’ puttin my hand in my pocket I pays him the money in his fisht. Sure the baste wud have cost tin poun in Ireland. Confound it all, says he, ye’re a dacint fellow; come in an have a bite to ate. An afther I had my dinner I started for my farm, adrivin my springer afore me through the woods, feelin proud as Punch over my bargain. It was not until I stood afore the bit shanty I had got raised, that the thought came on me all at once, that I had nothing to feed the baste. Och, it takes an Irishman to jump before seeing where his feet will fall. Well, I held my whisht, and my woman and her good mother comes out and falls admirin the baste. There was only another cow in the settlement; wan ouldArmstrong had. Sure, I cries, won’t the nabors be invying us! Thim here long afore us an widout a four-footed baste, barrin pigs an dogs an cats, an here, the firsht month we come, we have an illigant heifer, new come in. “She’s a beauty, sure,” says my wife’s mother, “an as like the wan I sould when I left the Ould Counthry (bad luck to the day I left it) as a red wan can be like a black; lave her to me, I’ll look afther her.” Indeed an I will, says I, for if you don’t she’ll die, for sorra a bite hev I got for her. An so it was, the ould woman took charge and tended her as if she had been her child, herdin her in the woods an atakin her to the creeks where she could get a bellyful, a drivin her home against nightfall. It divarted the ould woman, who had all the time been lamenting laving Ireland, and sarved us, for me wife an mysilf were workin hard in makin a clearance to get in a few praties. It was on in August that wan night the ould woman an the cow did not come home. She’ll hev lost her way, says my wife to me. Not at all, I tells her, she knows the woods as well by this time as ever she did the bog of Dorroghmore. Thin, why’s she not here? asks she. Och, she’ll have shtrayed furder than ordinar an daylight has failed her. Niver throuble yer mind; she’ll be here with the sun tomorrow. I was more consarned than I let on, but what could I do? It was dark an there was no use going looking for her in the woods wid acandle, seein’ we hadn’t wan. My wife couldn’t get a wink o’ sleep, an sot at the door, shouting whiniver she thought she heard a rustlin in the bush. The day broke an the sun climbed up until he was high enough to look over the tree tops at us an say Good mornin, an nivir a sign o’ the ould woman or the cow. We waited an waited, expectin ivery minute to see her, until I got afeard, an wint an tould the nearest nabors. They were consarned at the news an agreed if she did come back afore, they would warn the settlement an ivery man jack o’ thim would turn out next mornin to luk. An they did; och but there was a crowd ov them, some wid guns an some wid horns an some wid pitchforks. There was grain awaitin to be shore, but not a sowl of mankind stayed away. What’s that you say? They’d be Arangemen? What ilse was there in the sittlemint then? We didn’t talk in thim days about what makes strife, but lived as frindly as nabors could, helpin wan another, an niver askin what you were. Well, it was a fine day, tho hot, an aff we started, watchin for foot tracks an shoutin an blowin horns an firing shots, expectin the ould woman would hastin to us on hearin where we were. It was niver a bit o’ use. Hours wint by an we thravelled miles on miles an niver a sign. Whin we found a track we soon lost it, for the woods were cut up by slues. It was agrowin late whin a few o’ us met to talk itover. “We’ve gone north an east an wist,” says Sam Foster, the ouldest settler ov us all an a knowledgable man, “an havn’t found her or the cow. That shows me she has crossed the swamp to the south an gone towards the lines.” We agreed to this rasonin an shtarted aff for the swamp, which was as dirthy a puddle o’ black wather an green skum as there was in Ameriky. Sam was our guide, or we might av been thryin to crass it to this day. He knew where it was narrowest an by creeping along fallen trees we reached the ridge beyant, an hadn’t gone half a mile afore we struck the footprints of an ould woman an a cow. How did I know it was the footprints ov an ould woman? Hould yer whisht or I won’t be atellin you any more. It was a blessin we did, for it wad soon hev been too dark to have followed them up. I tell ye, we forgot our tiredness an hunger, an hurried on in great spirits, an in half an hour Sam shouts, “There she is,” apointin through the trees. I shouts Whuroo an dashes ahead o’ them all an in a minit I had the ould woman in my arms an the cow a lookin on as innocint as if it had niver played thricks whin a calf. The saints be praised ye are not kilt and ded, I cries, as I hugged her, for sure, though she was ould an wrinkled an bint, she was the mother o’ my darlin wife. Ded I wad hev been, says she, cryin wid joy, but for the crathur, an niver ben waked or buried. Bythis time the rist o’ the min kem up an awl sat down to hear the ould woman’s shtory. She tould us how, from the drouth, the cow found little to pick and kept amovin on and on until she was floundering in the swamp, an whin they got on solid land sorra the wan of thim knew where they were. “How did ye keep alive?” asks a man, “for ye are spry and hearty.” “I wunna tell ye,” says she. “Two days and two nights in the bush,” says another, “an you not hungry: it’s a mysthery.” “Hould yer whisht,” says another, “it’s a miracle: there be good people in thim woods as well as on the hills ov Ould Oireland.” It was growin late an there was no time for more talk an we shtarted for home, an, bedad, the ould woman bate us all wid the nimbleness she tripped through the bush an over the logs. Whin we got home, an glad my wife was when she hugged her ould mother, an the nabors left, I axed again how she had kept body an sowl so well together in the bush. “I wunna tell ye,” says she again, an aff she wint to bed. I tould all to my wife an axed her to find out, and by-and-bye she got it as a great saycret—the ould woman sucked the cow for food an purticted hersilf from the cowld ov the night by sleeping aside her.
“Are you done, grandpa?”
I turned, a girl stood behind us, having come unnoticed.
“Yis, yis; what is it?”
“Supper is ready, and I’ve been waiting ever so long to tell you.”
“Come,” said the old man to me as he rose, “an have a bite.”
I followed and when after tea I rose to take my horse for my homeward journey, my eyes must have expressed what courtesy kept my tongue from again asking. “Och, the little buk, is it. Well, I’ll trust ye wid it.” Leaving the room he returned with what looked like a greasy and much handled pass-book. “Take care of it,” he exclaimed with emotion, “an don’t keep it long.” Placing it in my pocket we parted.
On retiring to my room that night, I examined the book given me with such reluctance and read every word of it before going to bed. I found it to be the diary of an Irishman who had left his country during the famine. In the ship on which he embarked for Canada typhus fever broke out and the incidents of the horrors of the voyage and of the equal horrors of the quarantine sheds on being landed at Grosse isle were described with a simplicity and directness that alternately moved me to tears and filled my bosom with indignation. Next day I set to work to copy the diary. On considering the matter I saw it would be necessary to learn somewhat of the writer, who he was,whether he survived the plague, and if he did, where he was now. The first day I could get away from duty found me on the road to interview the old man a second time. On restoring to him the book I expressed freely my indignation at the conduct of the landlords, of the ship-agents, and of the quarantine officers, and my pity for those whom they oppressed. My words seemed to be unlooked for.
“Begorra,” said the old man, “I didn’t expict this aff ye. I tuk ye for wan that thought anything good enough for the likes of us.”
Explaining my wish to publish the diary I asked him to tell me what he knew about its writer.
“Sure he was my nevy, an I will tell ye awl about him.”
Though it was mid-October the day was warm and the sun unpleasantly hot, and the old man suggested we should go to the orchard, where he could tell me what he knew without interruption. It proved a long interview for I had many questions to ask and the substance of his statement, though not in his words, I will now give as an introduction to the diary.
It was in the year 1847 myself and wife were behind the house cutting hay. There was no mowing-machine those days; no, not even a scythe could be used because of the stumps, and we were picking the locks of hay out atween the stones and stumps with our hooks. It was a hot dayand we had been at work since sunrise, so our backs were tired enough, but we could not rest, for there was much to do and we had no help beside ourselves. We were working hard and fast, when a voice came ahint us that made us start.
“Uncle, wanna you look roun at me?”
There stood a girl, with a bundle in her right hand. By her figure you might say she was 17 or thereabout; by her face she was an old woman, for the bones were sticking out of the tight drawn skin and her skin was a deadly grey, with black streaks above and below the eyes. My first thought was the colleen was demented.
“God save you kindly,” says I, “but why do you name me uncle?”
“I am your brother’s child.”
You might have knocked me down with a feather, I was so astonished.
“What! me brother Jerry?”
“That same,” answers she in a wake voice.
“Where is he?” shouts I, throwing down my hook. “Lade me to him. Niver a line did he send to tell us he was laving Ireland, but welkim he and his as the flowers in May to the best I have.”
The girl didn’t stir; she seemed numbed and dead like and answered in her hollow voice, “He’s dead thim three weeks.”
“God save us all,” I shouted, “you are mad my colleen, and ye’re mind’s awandering. My brotherJerry is in Ireland with his wife and the childer, and ye’re mistaen when you call me uncle.”
“No, no,” she says to me, “ye’re my own uncle for I axed at the house next to you. My mother, my father, my brothers and sisters are wid the saints in glory,” and wid that she lifted her eyes and crosses herself.
“When and where?” I shouted in desperation.
“They died ov the ship favor, part are buried in the say and part at the favor sheds.”
With those words the truth of all she said burst on me and I staggered, for my head swam, and I had to throw myself down on the meadow, but my wife rushed past and clasped the poor child in her arms, “I’ll be mother to you, and, God help us, it won’t be on our account if the tear o’ sorrow come again to your eye.”
The poor thing didn’t respond as you might expect, but sank on my wife’s bosom and looked about with that stony stare of hers. My wife’s hot tears were raining on her face, when she whispered, “Wad ye give me a bite to eat?”
Then we saw it all. The girl was starving. I caught her up in my arms—she was no heavier than many a baby—a bag of bones—and I ran with her to the house, crying to my wife to hurry and get something ready. Had ye seen her look at the food as my wife brought it out of the cellar, with the eye of a wild beast, you would have shivered. “Draw in,” says I, “it’s coorse, but itis the best we have, an there’s plenty av it.”
“Is the mate for me?” she asks doubtful like.
“Surely,” says I.
“I havn’t put a tooth mark on mate for three years,” says she simple like.
I reached her a rib of cold boiled pork and she smiled for the first time, and sucked it as a child does the orange it wants to have the taste of as long as possible. When she had eaten as much as my wife thought safe, she took and laid her on our own bed, and willing she was, for she was clean beat out, and went to sleep when her head touched the pillow. Then we had a talk. She had come from the fever sheds and might give the disease to the children, who had gone berrying, so I goes, as agreed on, and meets them, tells them of their new cousin from Ireland, who had come to us sick, and takes them to stay with a neighbor for the night. Next morning I off to the hay before sunrise and worked excited like till the sun got high and overpowering, when I says to myself, “I’ll take a rest and go and see my brother’s child.” She was sitting at the door, where the hops clustered round her, and looked another crathur. The fearsome glare of hunger in the eye was gone and there was a glint of color in the cheek as she rose to welcome me. “You don’t think me mad today, uncle?” she asks me. “God forgive me,” says I, “for the word—.” With that she puts her hand over my mouth. Oh shewas the kindly crathur, and now that she was clean and fresh dressed I could see would be a handsome lass when there was more mate on her bones. My wife had been looking for my coming and had the table spread, and after we had eaten we sat again in the shade at the door and as I smoked my pipe Ellen told her story. It was, more the pity, a common enough one in those days. The failure of the potatoes had left my brother unable to get enough for his family to eat let alone pay the rent. On the back of the hunger came sickness and when things had got to be as bad as they could, the agent comes round and tells him if he would give up his houlding and go to Canada the landlord would forgive him the rent, pay the passage-money and a pound ahead on landing at Quebec. He took the offer as his neighbors did and went to Dublin, where they found a ship waiting for them. They were not out of sight of land when the fever broke out and the children, one after another, took it, and three died at sea. When quarantine was reached they were all sent ashore, and there the rest of the children, saving Ellen, died, with the father and mother. When the fever left her she was put on board a steamer for Montreal, and got sorra a bite from the hour she left until she landed, though it took the boat 36 hours. Faint and sick she was hurried ashore and when she made for the city a policeman turned her backand she sat down on the wharf, wishing to die. By and by a man comes along and by his dress she knew he was a minister, though not of our sort. He spoke to her and she told him she wanted to get to me, and showed my address on a bit of paper she carried in her bosom. He read it and saying to follow him, led to a steamer lying in the canal. He sought out the captain and told him to take the girl and land her at Beauharnois, and the captain promised he would to oblige the minister and refused the dollar he offered. The stranger handed it to her with the words, “I must leave you, for others are perishing,” and slipped away before she could thank him. That evening she was landed at Beauharnois and when the steamer left the wharf for the Cascades she felt more lost than ever, for she heard nothing but French, and not a word she understood. She spied a man putting bags of flour in a cart with a face that she thought was that of an Old Countryman. She went up to him and he answered her in English, or rather Scotch, for I know him well; he lives near the Meadows. She told where she wanted to go. “You’ll be ane o’ thae emigrants,” says he, “an may hae the fever.” “I’ve had it,” says Ellen, “an am well again.” “Aye, but ye may give it to ither folk.” At this a Frenchman came up to speak to the man and on seeing Ellen put his hand to his mouth and drew back. “Louis,” says the Scotchman, “takthis lassie hame wi you and give her a nicht’s lodgin.” Louis shook his head. “I’ll pay you, man,” shouted the Scotchman. “No, no,” said Louis, making a sign of horror, “me not let her in my house.” “You are a’ o’ ae kirk and suld be kind to ane anither.” Without replying, Louis left. “Weel, lassie, gin they’ll no gie you cover in this town, ye maun gae wi me,” and with that he went into the tavern at the head of the wharf and came back with some bread in his hand for her. He spread his horse blanket on the bags for her to sit on and off they started. It was a long drive in the dark, for the horse walked every step of the way, and Ellen fell asleep. On waking at the rumbling of the cart ceasing, she found they were standing in a farm-yard. The night was clear but cold, but she had not felt it, for the Scotchman had tucked his big coat around her. He told her he dare not take her to the house for fear of infecting the children. Lighting a lantern he showed her to a corner of the barn, where she lay down to sleep, while he went to unyoke his horse. On waking in the morning she stepped into the yard, where she found the Scotchman unloading his cart. “I’ve been waitin for you,” says he, “an dinna tak it unkind if I say you maun go at ance on yer way. Were my naebors to hear o’ ane wha has been sick o’ the fever bein here, my place wad be shunned.” Putting something to eat in her hand he bade herfollow him, and pointed out the road she was to take for her uncle’s place, and by observing his directions had succeeded.