CHAPTER II.

Mrs McDonald had tidied up the one and only room of the shanty, and was expecting momentarily the arrival of her husband and son, when she was terror-struck by the unlooked for sound of the squall among the trees. Hurrying from the house, she stood on the beach, on which the waves were beginning to break, but the darkness and rain prevented her seeing many yards. In her agony of apprehension she shouted, in the hope that the missing ones were near: from the stormy waters came no reply. Bidding her children, who had followed her, to go and alarm the neighbors, very soon every soul in the settlement was by her side, talking rapidly in Gaelic and excitedly suggesting what ought to be done. They were all agreed that if the canoe was on the lake when the storm burst she was lost, and their sole hope was she had not left the other shore. The only other canoe they had was no larger than the one that was gone, and to launch it in order to search the lake, would be to add to the calamity. All that could be done was to build a bonfire on the most prominent point, to guide the missing canoe if within sight, and hope for the best. Laying his hand on Mrs McDonald’s arm, as she stood wistfully gazing on the now foaming waters of the lake, the oldest man of the settlement said, “Come with us out of the cold and wet; we can do no good here.” Gathered in the shanty, the fire was replenished until it roared in the ample chimney, and the neighbors talked hopefully to the family and despondently among themselves. When the hope that the storm was only a passing squall was dissipated by its settling into a gale, under the influence of which the waves lashed the sandy beach with a roar so appalling that it stifled the groanings of the forest, the men agreed among themselves that McDonald and his son were at the bottom of the lake, and their hearts grew sore for those whom they believed to be widowed and orphaned by the calamity. Fighting with her fears, Mrs McDonald tried to persuade herself all would come right, and assumed a complacency she was far from feeling. “Often,” she remarked, “has my husband been out worse nights than this in Scotland, and surely he who could fight the Atlantic is not going to be drowned in a bit freshwater loch in Canada. To be sure there was a winding-sheet in the candle last night, but that did not signify, seeing that it was made from the fat of a wild deer, and not from that of a Christian sheep. Not one of my family, and it goes far back, Mrs McGillis, ever died without the wraith of Ian Ban, our forbear, who was laird of Glenish, being seen, and it is not to be said he failed to warn me when my husband and oldest son were near their end. I am not afraid of them. They will be here tomorrow--Donald, like a good man, go and see that the fire is blazing on the point--and we must keep our composure. What is that?”

Close to the dwelling rose a prolonged howl, beginning at a low pitch and rising to a piercing climax, the sound of which blanched every face. Those nearest the door opened it; none ventured out. Every ear was strained. In a few minutes the howl was repeated. “Pooh!” said a young man, “it is only a wolf.”

The incident broke the tension of suspense, and one after another began telling stories of their old life in Skye, having more or less bearing on the situation of those they waited for. Thus the hours wore away, and it was noted with satisfaction that at the turn of the night the gale broke and speedily died away. The waves still ran too high for the canoe to be launched to attempt to gain the other side of the lake and make enquiries, but they were falling fast. When it was agreed it would be safe to go, the settlers again gathered on the beach, which was reddened by the beacon fire that still blazed. There was unexpected delay; a paddle was found to be broken, and another had to be made, and ere all was ready a faint whitening of the eastern sky told of the coming day. It was now a beautiful night, calm and still, the glassy swells of the lake reflecting the sparkle of the stars. Many a searching glance was cast across the broad lake for the missing boat, and dreadful apprehensions filled each bosom as to the secret its dark waters kept. The canoe was about to start, the two men going with her had dipped their paddles, and the group on the beach clustered closer to see her off, when, faint and from afar, came over the surface of the lake a plaintive murmur. Not a word was uttered, but every ear was strained to catch the sound. It came again fitfully. Neighbor looked with agony into the blanched face of neighbor. The one idea possessed them, that it was the dirge of the spirits of their departed friends as they were journeying to the place of souls. The mother impulsively sprang forward until the water laved her feet and cried, “My Allan, my first-born, is it you that is calling? Oh speak to me and tell where in the cold deep I will find you.”

There was a shriek behind her which froze every heart. A young woman, the winsome daughter of one of the settlers, had fallen senseless on the sand.

The patriarch of the settlement who, at the first sound, had knelt and placed his ear close to the lake, soon rose in stern reproof. “Is it thus you welcome God’s mercy? Your son, Mrs McDonald, and your lover, Flora, for so you have just revealed to us he is, is alive and well. It is his voice singing the boat-song of the Isle of Mist, and I hear the plash of oars.” And so it was, for now clear and strong came from the lake the words of the song, and soon keen eyes could see the approaching canoe. There was a shout of joy, and tears streamed from every cheek. A few minutes more and the lost were among them.

When they had re-entered the shanty and the cup of rejoicing had gone round, Mr McDonald told his story. As time passed, and the canoe drifted farther down the lake, he had given up all hope and expected every moment to feel it caught in the strong current that leads to the rapids, and to hear their dreadful sound. “I was praying for you in my heart,” he said, “when I heard the sound of breaking water. Allan, I shouted, here they are at last; make ready to jump and swim for your life. No sooner said than my paddle struck bottom and I saw trees before me. Quick, Allan, jump and we will drag the canoe ashore. We both sprang out at the same time, and catching hold of the canoe ran her through the breakers and high on to the bank. We were wet and so cold, but, oh, we were thankful that we were saved. After a while we got up and moved round to see if a house was near, when we found that we were on one of the small islands that lie at the head of the rapids. A few rods one way or the other and we would have swept past it and been lost. It was God’s own hand that had steered our canoe. Well, we waited patiently till the gale went down, and as soon as we dared we launched out again and paddled homeward. And a long pull we had, but it warmed us.”

The bag of flour was opened. The water had caked the outside layer, leaving the interior quite dry. The flour was examined with interest, being the first from wheat grown in the settlement.

“Well,” exclaimed the patriarch, “it is time we were in our beds, though it be now good daylight, and we will go to sleep with thankful hearts that our good neighbor is with us and not at the bottom of the lake. And you, Mrs McDonald, we wish well to, for you have this morning found not only the son that was lost, but a daughter you knew not of, and a good girl she is too. There is plenty of land here for all, and we will build them a house and hold our New Year in it, and, please God, we will not again risk life in these French cobbles of canoes, but build a big boat.”

And so it came to pass. The New Year beheld Flora and Allan made one with a merry-making that became a tradition in the settlement, their Glengarry friends driving over the icy bosom of the lake to it in a drove, and bringing two pipers to supply the music, and when spring came a boat, large enough to carry half a dozen bags of flour, built after the best Isle of Skye design, was launched in the creek beside the shanty of William McPhee, and served the settlement many a long year.

ABNER’S DEVICE.

“Abner, I want you to go a message for me after breakfast.”

“Yes, mother. Is it to Four Corners?”

“No; you are to go to the Blands, with a basket for old Mrs Whiting.”

“Why, that’s in Canada, and they’re our enemies.”

“Our governments are at war, but we old neighbors are not.”

“But the Indian guard may catch me.”

“If they do, they’ll not harm a boy like you.”

“Yes, they would, mother. They’d scalp anything that’s Yankee, and I hate them and every Britisher. I don’t see why you want to do a good turn to those who’ve been trying these two years to cut our throats and burn our houses.”

“Abner!” exclaimed Mrs Smith reproachfully.

“I want to hit them every time, mother, and if I have got to go, you’ll let me take father’s rifle.”

“No, Abner; you’ll go as you are, and if the Indian guard fall in with you, their captain will let you go when you tell your errand. If congress want to fight king George, that’s not to say we are to hate and hurt those we have lived beside so long and who’ve done us many a kindness.”

This conversation took place in the log shanty of a first settler in northern New York in the fall of 1813. War was then in progress, and a few days before General Hampton had returned from his attempt to reach Montreal, and with his withdrawal to winter quarters the settlers along the frontier supposed hostilities were ended for the season. When war had been declared the settlers on the American side of the lines were in terror of being visited by the Indians, whom the British government had enrolled to watch the frontier, but as time proved their apprehensions groundless, they were little affected by the contest that was being waged, beyond having their intercourse with the settlers on the Canadian side restricted, and that intercourse had been close and frequent, for the difference in allegiance had not affected their friendship. In the bush distance goes for little, and though five miles apart, the Blands were Mrs Smith’s nearest neighbors to the north, and their relation had been of the warmest kind. Unable, owing to the presence of Hampton’s camp at Four Corners, to do their trading there, Mrs Smith knew that the Blands must be without groceries and even flour, and, at this, the first opportunity, she was eager to send them some little comforts to vary their coarse fare, especially for Mrs Whiting, the grandmother of the household, who was often bedridden from rheumatism.

The basket was ready for Abner by the time he had finished breakfast. His imagination had been fired by seeing the soldiers at fort Hickory and at Four Corners, and to carry the basket in the usual way was out of the question. Securing thin withe-ropes, made from the bark of the moosewood, he slung the basket on his shoulders like a knapsack, and catching up a cedar pole he grasped it as if it were a musket, and shouting to himself the order, “Eyes front; right foot forward; quick march!” off he set, fancying himself one of Colonel Purdy’s crack brigade. Mrs Smith as, from the door, she watched her boy depart on his errand, while she smiled at his wayward fancy, could not help feeling a thrill of pride in his lithe, active figure, giving promise of a handsome man. That he was shrewd and quick-witted, as well as tall and strong, for his years, she well knew.

The weather had been extremely wet for the season; the ground was soaked and the leaves had long ago been washed from all the trees except the beech. During the night the rain had ceased, and the morning, dull and hazy, gave promise of a dry day. Once out of his father’s clearance, Abner’s way lay through the bush. There was a foot-track that led to the Blands, but now it was so hidden by the litter of leaves that it was indiscernible. That did not signify. Born in the woods, they were so familiar that Abner could find his way in any direction he chose, with as much ease as the dwellers in cities traverse their intricacies of streets and lanes. As he threaded his way among the trees, the chatter of the chipmunk, the whirr of the partridge, and the tapping of a belated woodpecker were the only sounds that fell on his ear, and no sight more unusual than an occasional grey-squirrel or troop of deer. When he had crossed the line that divides Chateaugay from Hinchinbrook, and was fairly on Canadian territory, he became more circumspect, and his fancy changed. He was no longer the right-hand man of a file of soldiers, but a scout, sent into the enemy’s country to get information. Keeping under every cover that offered, looking furtively around before venturing to cross any open that came in his way, treading on the hardest ground he could find, and doubling on his track where the soil treacherously retained his footprints, he found playing at Abner the spy much more exciting than that of Abner the soldier. Suddenly a crackling sound arrested his footsteps. It was, he knew, no noise made by any denizen of the forest, and he turned towards whence it came. Soon he caught the faint odor of smoke, and then he knew there was a fire near--probably the camp-fire of the British guard. Prudence whispered to him to turn away and pass on; curiosity, to go and have a peep at the camp. He was only a boy of fourteen, and curiosity carried the day. Slowly he stole towards the point whence the crackling sound of blazing branches came, and so noiselessly that even the squirrels failed to start at his approach until he passed their perch. Now he could see the smoke, and next the glare of the embers. He thought he saw the figure of a man, but as, when he looked again, the shape was gone, he thought he had been mistaken. He paused to listen. There was no sound save the drumming of a partridge behind him. Redoubling his caution, he crawled towards the spot whence the smoke rose, and when he slowly lifted his head from behind a thicket, he was startled to find himself looking into a camp of the dreaded Indian guard, of whom he had so often heard but never seen. There they were, 21 in number, lying prostrate in sleep in a circle around the fire and the pale autumn sunshine streaming down upon them. Uncouth looking men they were, with daubs of paint on their faces that made them hideous. Beside each one lay his musket, and some even, in their sleep, grasped their hatchets, prepared, if surprised, for immediate combat. Their captain Abner recognized from his being white and wearing the sword and crimson sash of a British officer. With eager eye Abner scanned the unexpected scene, and when the first feeling of fear died away, he grew bold and thought of what he might have accomplished had his mother allowed him to take his father’s rifle with him. The exploits of Robert Rogers and Ethan Allen floated before his mind’s eye and he planned how, had he been armed, he might have shot the captain through the heart and have disappeared before any of the sleeping group knew what had happened. Satisfied with the sight, he moved to withdraw and resume his journey. At the first attempt to turn around, his arms were seized with a grasp of iron, and, looking up, he saw he was in the hands of an Indian, whose painted visage glared with ferocity. Appalled for a moment, Abner stood still, then he made a wrench to get away. It was in vain. Drawing the boy’s arms together, the Indian grasped them by the wrists with his left hand, and when the right hand was thus released he thrust it into the folds of his belt of wampum. Abner’s eyes followed the movement, and when the hand was withdrawn grasping a short, thick knife, which he recognized as the scalping-knife he had heard so much of, a paroxysm of terror smote him, and he gave a piercing shriek. With a diabolical grin, as if he enjoyed the boy’s terror, the Indian passed the knife before Abner’s eyes and tried its edge on his soft chubby cheek, then flourished it before plunging into his scalp. As he made the motion, a billet of wood came hurtling past, and striking the Indian on the head, he fell, dragging Abner down with him. He was lifted up by the captain, whom Abner had seen asleep a minute before, and as he passed his hand over him to make sure he was unhurt, he poured forth a torrent of angry words, in his own language, at the Indian, who gave no sign that the knockdown blow he had received had hurt him. As the captain led Abner into the circle of Indians, who had been awakened by his shriek, he told him he had been scolding his assailant for attempting to scalp him, and said in apology that he was a heathen Indian of the far west, a Blackfoot who had strayed to the Ottawa, and joined a band of the Iroquois. “I do not allow my men to be cruel; my orders be to watch the frontier to prevent invasion by your soldier, and not to hurt anybody.” Then he asked Abner who he was and why he had come nigh their camp, and was answered frankly.

“Ah, my leetle man,” said the captain, who spoke with a French accent, “if you tell me true you get away; but I’m afraid you carry letter,--despatch--eh!” Taking the basket from his back, the captain lifted out its contents, among which were half-a-dozen apples, then a luxury in the new settlement, where the few fruit trees planted had not begun to bear. An Indian snatched up one and took a bite, laughingly saying, “Yankee apple better nor Yankee bullet.” The other contents were of as innocent a description: a few little luxuries that might tempt an invalid, a small bag of flour, and a bottle of liniment. The captain, satisfied there was no letter in the basket, carefully replaced its contents, and then examined Abner’s clothing, making him even take off his shoes. While thus engaged an Indian slouched up beside the captain and, throwing down his musket, began to speak to him, and Abner listened to the guttural sounds with awe.

“Dis man,” said the captain, “tell me he see you leave clearance and follow you. He say, when you come to Canada side you act as ’fraid, hide behind bush, and walk ve-ray fooney. Why you no want to be seen?”

Abner blushed at this description of his enacting the role of Indian scout and perceived how his conduct could be misconstrued. He remembered, also, his mother’s repeated injunction that truth is better under any circumstances, and, with a shamed smile on his face, he told what he was doing. The captain grinned as he listened and patting Abner on the back said: “I know; boy once myself and now fadder of four; you play one leetle game of Indian spy, not tinking real Indian watch you. You one good, honest-faced boy. Pity you Yankee.”

The Indian who had tracked him, smiled as the captain spoke, showing he understood English, and, like all his race, enjoyed banter. “You smell smoke, eh?” he said, “hold up nose and go on. Then you hear partridge drum (here he imitated the sound) me partridge and signal to Joe; Joe steal up behind, catch arms, pull out knife, you--squeal,” and here, as if overcome by the ludicrousness of the scene, the Indian grinned from ear to ear without emitting a single sound of laughter, and poked Abner in the side.

“You make big mistake tink you come to Indian camp without we know,” remarked the captain, “when we sleep, sentinel all round like fox.” Changing the subject, the captain tried to get from Abner what he knew of the movements and whereabouts of the American army, particularly of the number still in camp at Four Corners, which Abner admitted he had visited the day before. It was without avail. The boy realized the information he would give might be used against his countrymen, and he answered evasively. “Ah, well,” exclaimed the captain, “it no matter; we’ve our spies in your camp so well as in de bush.”

The Indians were now busily preparing breakfast, and Abner watched them with curious eyes as they placed potatoes and pieces of pork to cook upon the hot embers, while a copper-kettle with tea was slung on a crooked stick. Their duties required them to be on the patrol along the frontier during the night, which accounted for their sleeping so late.

“Vell,” said the captain, “what you tink of dese Indian? Yankee able to catch ’em? Eh? You tell, when you get home, what great fellow Indians be. Now you may go, and give Mrs Bland de compliment of Captain de Versailles and say he will do her de honor of taking supper with her.”

Thus permitted to resume his journey, Abner struck into the bush, and in half an hour had reached the house of the Blands. He was hailed with an uproarious welcome from every member of the large household, for there was the delight not only of resuming long-suspended friendly intercourse, but the proof in his appearance that the warfare waged between the two governments had not lessened the goodwill of their neighbors. Unpacking the basket, it was found to contain a little of everything they had been so long deprived from being shut out from the American stores. On the cork being drawn from the bottle of liniment, granny declared that the very smell had done her rheumatics good. As the contents of the basket lay spread on the table, a sudden thought seemed to strike Mrs Bland, which she communicated in a whisper to her husband. There was a quiet consultation, and then she addressed Abner.

“We have something strange to tell you, and mum’s the word. Night before last, when we were asleep, a knock came to the door and then it was pushed open. Father rose, stirred the fire, and got a light, when we saw it was an American soldier. He was drenched to the skin, for it was pouring rain, and, oh, what a pale, thin ghost he looked! He crept up to the fire and sank in a heap beside it, muttering, ‘Thank God.’ I saw he was perishing, and got some hot drink for him, and after a while he told his story. He had been with Hampton’s army in the battle, where he had received a flesh wound in the side, and when Purdy’s brigade fell back he was unable to keep up with them, got separated from his company, and, in the dark, lost his way. Next morning he tried to find the trail of the army, but failed, and then, guided by the sun, struck south, knowing he would in time reach the States. Too weak to carry them, he threw away his musket and ammunition, and crawled, rather than walked. When the last biscuit in his haversack was eaten, he had to trust to beech and butter nuts, though he was not hungry, for his wound fevered him. Often he lay down, thinking he would never rise again, but he was young and strong, and when he revived a little he pushed on, until, to his great joy, he struck our clearing. He thought he was in the States, and when we told him our house was on the Canada side he was dreadful afraid we would give him up, and he would be sent to Montreal as a prisoner. We soon eased him on that score; our big trouble was to hide him from the Indian guard until we could get him sent across the lines.”

“Yes, mother,” interrupted one of her sons, “they came to our house the next day, and are close by yet.” Abner shivered.

“Well,” resumed Mrs Bland, “I made the poor Yank take off his wet clothes and lie down in our warm bed. I dressed his wound for the first time, and it was raw and nasty, I can tell you, and then he fell asleep like a baby, poor fellow. I cleaned and set his clothes to dry, and as I sat mending them next morning father and I consulted. To keep him in the house was to give him up to the Indians, and he was too weak to travel farther. Where to hide him until he was able to leave bothered us, when, all of a sudden, father thought of the big platform that stands near the spring in the bush, two acres back, which the Indians raised last year for still hunting. It was late in the day when he awoke, and he found himself weak as water but the fever had left him. We told him what we intended, and, after he had eaten something, father and the boys carried him to the platform, rolled him in a blanket and covered him with elm bark and cedar brush. We have taken him victuals after dark, and last night, seeing it was wet, we fetched him over and gave him a night’s rest in bed. He eats little, for his stomach is turned against our common food, and he’ll be glad of what your mother has sent. Now, Ab, can’t you think of some plan to get this poor fellow across the lines?”

He could not think of any, for the woods were full of Indians, but he would like to visit the wounded soldier. Preparing as tasty a repast as she could out of the victuals sent by Mrs Smith, Abner and Mrs Bland started for his place of concealment. As is their custom, the Indians had raised the platform in a thicket, which commanded a runway, and was therefore well concealed, and, what was of equal consequence at that season, sheltered from the wind. On coming beneath it, Mrs Bland spoke, when there was a movement above, and a face, so ashy pale and wasted that Abner felt a creeping feeling pass over him, peered from beyond the edge. “Here’s a boy from Yankeetown and a dinner cooked from the provisions he has brought.”

“He’s welcome,” faintly whispered the soldier. “I wish I could go back with him.”

Taking the basket in one hand, Abner climbed up to the platform with the agility of a squirrel, and helped the soldier to raise himself and arrange the food. When he saw the wheaten bread, he said it put him in mind of home, and he fell to and made the best meal he had partaken of since the fatal day on the Chateaugay. His strength returned with the grateful food and he asked Abner many questions, what Hampton had done after the battle, where he was now, were many killed, did the British follow him up, and were there many Indians in the woods. When he heard of Abner’s encountering the Indians that morning, he shuddered, and Abner could not help thinking of what his fate would be did one of them ferret out his retreat, a reflection that increased his desire to save him. Leaving the soldier in a cheerful and hopeful mood, he slipped back to the Blands, puzzling his head to devise some plan of rescuing his countryman.

After dinner, which consisted of corn boiled in milk, and potatoes with fried venison, the Bland boys proposed to go partridge shooting, and Abner agreed, as he was in no hurry to return home. So off they went. In beating the woods, a coon was started, and it supplied the idea Abner had been seeking for. Before they returned home he had worked it out and determined to submit it to Mrs Bland. On approaching the door they heard peals of laughter, when one of the boys remarked, “The captain has come; he’s a jolly one with the girls,” and on entering, they found that personage entertaining the family in his liveliest style. Abner bit his lip and saw he must bide his time. Supper is an early meal in the backwoods, and after enjoying it to the full, and diverting and flattering each of the household, Captain Versailles, with many apologies for duty requiring him to leave such delightful company, left to return to his Indians. No sooner had he gone, than Abner asked abruptly, “These moonlight nights don’t you go coon-hunting?”

“Don’t we, Ab,” answered one of the boys, “think you’d say so if you saw the skins nailed on the barn-door.”

“Well, then, I’ve a plan to get the soldier away with me,” which he proceeded to lay before them. Briefly it was, that the boys should go with their guns a mile or so east and close to the boundary-line, when they would begin firing and shouting. The Indians, thinking it was an attack from Fort Hickory, would hurry to meet the invaders, leaving the western part of the frontier unguarded, and let Abner slip across with the soldier.

“It’s feasible,” said Mr Bland, “the trouble is the poor fellow isn’t able to walk a rod, let alone five miles.”

“He’ll die from cold if left out longer,” remarked his wife; “we must run some risk. He might be able to keep on the back of the old white mare.”

“That’s so,” answered her husband, “we’ll try Ab’s plan.”

As no time was to be lost, it being essential to make the diversion before the Indians were detailed by Captain Versailles to their posts for the night, the boys caught up their guns and left, while Abner and Mr Bland slipped over to the hiding-place of the soldier, told him what was intended, and helped him down from his perch. The prospect of speedy escape gave him unwonted strength, and leaning on his friends he managed to walk to the house, where Mrs Bland, after dressing his wound, insisted on washing his face and tidying him up. “For sure,” she said, “you’re going home to your friends, and you mustn’t give Canada a bad name.”

“That I never will,” murmured the grateful soldier, “God has anointed the hearts of both peoples with the same oil of kindness, and it’s only the politicians and big men on both sides that make trouble between us.”

The evening was calm and mild for the season, and Mr Bland sat listening by the open door. Presently, there burst from a remote corner of the woods, a sharp volley, followed by such shouts and cries as would lead the listener to fancy a fierce fight was in progress. “There they are!” exclaimed Mr Bland, while the shots and uproar continued to increase, “let ’em keep that up for five minutes, and there won’t be an Indian within earshot who won’t be running to the spot.”

The noise did continue that long and longer too, while, with skilful imitation, it subsided and increased, and passed from one part of the woods to another, the cheers of soldiers mingling with equally good imitations of Indian yells, giving the impression of a running fight between a detachment of the American garrison and the Indian guard. When Mr Bland considered all the Indians had left for the neighborhood of the supposed fight, the old mare was brought to the door, which the soldier was helped to mount, and Abner, grasping the bridle, led the way. By this time the moon was high enough to be pouring down its rays through the tree-tops, and though its light was useful in showing him how to avoid obstacles and to go much faster than they otherwise could have done, Abner would have dispensed with it for fear of its revealing their presence to the Indians. His fear was groundless. His device was a complete success. Not an Indian was met, the woods were traversed in safety, and Abner exulted in the thought how he had tricked the Indians, and almost laughed right out when he pictured to himself their disgust, on reaching the scene of the supposed fight, to find it to be only a coon-hunt. If they had trapped him in the morning, he had outwitted them in the evening. When the light of his father’s house was discerned, Abner relieved his feelings by a great shout of exultation, that drew his parents to the door.

“Well, Abner, you see the Indians did not catch you?”

“Didn’t they mother! I feel the clutch of one of ’em at my scalp yet. Won’t you help the stranger down, father? He is a soldier and wounded.”

“Wounded! Poor critter, I must get the bed ready,” and Mrs Smith darted indoors.

Stiff and sore from the exertion and cold, the poor soldier was like to fall when they helped him off the mare, and, gently, father and son carried him to the bed.

“Poor man, ain’t he tuckered out!” exclaimed Mrs Smith, as she approached him when his head had been laid on the pillow. Shading the candle she glanced at him, started, looked again, and crying out, “Blessed if it ben’t my own brother Bill from Varmont!” she fell on his neck in a paroxysm of hysterical sobs. And so it turned out to be. He had been among those last drafted to reinforce Hampton, and had been unconscious that his sister lived so near the camp at Four Corners. Abner was the hero of the night when the soldier told how he had been the means of saving him. “No,” said the lad modestly, “it was mother’s sending me against my will to the Blands that saved you.”

“That’s so, Abner, and you never forget it, that blood is thicker than water, and in doing a kind deed to those you considered an enemy we were serving ourselves.”

WHAT A SETTLER TOLD ME.

After the stifling heat and blinding glare of a Canadian summer day, it is most refreshing to walk forth as the sun, shorn of its strength, sinks, a glowing ball of fire, behind the forest that edges the landscape. Vegetation, wilted by the day’s glaring heat, revives with the dewy coolness of the hour, and from the neighboring bush comes the song of the greybird. As the glow fades from the sky, nowhere else in the world of tenderer blue or more translucent depth, the stars drop into sight, and should Venus be in the ascendant, she burns with a white flame unknown at any other season. Generally, with the setting of the sun, a light breeze springs up from the west or northwest, refreshing to the farmers who toiled throughout the sultry day, and swaying the heads of timothy until the meadows seem to be swept by billows. The eye of the saunterer takes in the scene, passing over the great flat fields of grain and grass, until ended by the recurring belt of bush; the snug farm-houses set amid shade-trees and orchards; the pond-like reaches of the Chateaugay, sleeping peacefully in the hollows of its rounded banks, unruffled save as the wing of one of the swallows, that skim its glassy surface, frets it for a moment, or from the leap of an inhabitant of its clear waters; and, in the finished beauty of the picture, he finds it hard to realize that he is looking upon the results of the labor of scarce half a century, that underneath a few of the roofs before him still live men and women who saw the country when a wilderness of forest and swamp, and who are survivors of the generation who wrought the wondrous change--men and women who underwent privations the most painful and labors the most exhausting in making the country what it is. To give those who have inherited the fruits of their sacrifices some idea of what the first settlers underwent, I here submit the narrative of one of them, as nearly as may be in the words I was told it:

You have driven a long way to see me, sir, and I am afraid I can tell you little worth the hearing. It is strange you should go to so much trouble to gather these old-time stories, but if I can tell you anything that will be of use to you I am willing. You want me to begin with our leaving the Old Country and go on in order, as you can recollect best that way. Very well, only you will have to come and see me again, for it is a long story, and if you print any of it, you are to change it so that nobody will know who told you. I don’t mind myself, but some of my children might not like it.

We belonged to the Border, and the first sight that met my eyes every morning was the Eildon hills. My husband was a shepherd and we lived well enough until our family began to grow large, and then we thought it would be well for their sake to try Canada. We had a little saved and that, with what we got from the roup of our furniture, paid our passage and plenishing. We sailed from the Solway, into which a big ship from Liverpool called for a party of emigrants. We were rowed out in small boats, and when I got on to her deck my heart failed me, for such dirt and confusion I never saw the like, crowded as she was with 242 emigrants from county Kerry, who had gone on board at Liverpool. This we never expected, but it was too late now, and we had to make the best of it. The sight below was worse than above, and I turned fairly sick when I went down the ladder to our berths; the noise was bad enough but the smell was just awful. The mate, a swearing character, was not without a show of decency, and did the great favor of allotting to us Border folks, who numbered an even six dozen, the row of berths aft the main hatchway, so that we were kept together. We slipped out of the firth that night with the tide, and next morning, which was a most beautiful day, we kept tacking off and on the coast of the North of Ireland. As we got out on the ocean I grew sea-sick, and for a few days I was just in misery; having to attend the children yet hardly able to raise my head. The ship’s provisions were scanty and very bad, which did not matter much to us, for we had taken a good deal with us, but the poor Irish, who had brought nothing, were always wanting to borrow, and as we, not having more than enough to serve ourselves, had to refuse, they abused us for being proud, and tried to pick quarrels, but both the Scotch and English of us kept our tempers and gave them no offence. Their jealousy and ill-feeling grew, and one morning they banded together to prevent our getting hot water at the galley. This we could not stand, for the water was bad and only fit to drink when boiled and made into tea or gruel. The captain refused to interfere, being afraid, we thought, of having trouble with the Kerry men, and when we told the mate he only swore at our lads for a cowardly lot of sheep-tenders. When dinner-time came, our men got out their crooks, and, going quietly on deck, formed in a column and, laying about them right and left, cleared a road to the galley. There were fearful threats made, but nothing came of them, and after that we were respected and left alone.

The ship made little headway owing to the wind keeping in the west, and it was on the eighth day of our voyage that it became known to us that a woman, who had been sick for some time, was ill of the fever. On that day she got delirious and her people could not hide the truth longer. Four of the oldest men of our party were sent to tell the captain. He made light of their news and said they were mistaken about the disease, but he refused to come and see the woman or to erect a partition across the hold to separate us from the rest of the passengers. We took his treatment sore to heart. When ship-owners get his passage-money, they don’t care what becomes of the poor emigrant, and would just as soon he would die on the voyage as land him. We went to sleep that night sad and frightened, for we knew, by reading the papers, what ship-fever meant. Well, next day the woman was worse, and on the evening of the third she died. We were all anxious that the corpse should be buried at once, so that the infection might not be spread by it, and two of our folk, taking some things that might be useful in preparing the body, went over to where it lay to advise that that be done. The poor creatures got angry at once, and drove them back, and cursed us for a set of heretics, who would put the decent woman out of sight without waking her. They laid the corpse on top of some chests in the centre of the ship, surrounded it by candles, and then the keening began, which drove me nearly into hysterics. The captain, hearing what was going on, sent down a keg of rum, and made matters worse. Towards morning, when the drink had taken effect, they began to quarrel, and the noise and confusion was terrible. There being no partition, we could see the whole length of the hold, with the rows of berths on either side, and towards the far end, in the middle of the ship, was the white heap formed by the corpse and lighted by candles, with the women sitting around it, wailing in the most unearthly way, and taking no heed of the men and children who swarmed outside of them, talking, shouting, pushing, and fighting. A candle was knocked down and there was a cry of fire, but an old woman smothered it with her cloak. As we could not sleep, and were afraid they might come to our end of the ship and give us trouble, we went on deck to wait till all was over. It was a cold, raw morning, with not enough of wind to keep the ship from pitching, but anything was better than being below. When the eight o’clock bell struck, the Irish came swarming up, bearing the corpse. They rested it awhile by the bulwarks, when all, even to the smallest child, fell on their knees in prayer. Then it was lifted over and let drop into the ocean. The sailors would not help, keeping by themselves on the forecastle, for they were afraid of the infection. As four days passed without a new case, we were beginning to hope the danger was passed, but on the fifth three children took ill, and before the week was done there were 17 down. After that the disease had its own way, and deaths became so frequent that it was impossible to hold wakes. We pitied the poor creatures, and gave more than we could spare to help them. The worst want of the sick was water and though it smelt so that a horse would not have touched it and not worth the saving, for there was plenty on board such as it was, the captain would not order that the allowance be increased, but he encouraged the steward to sell liquor, in the profit of which he shared. I cannot begin to tell you of the scenes we had to endure; it was of God’s mercy that they did not take away our senses. If the ship was dirty before the fever broke out, it was worse now, and the smell, as you stepped from the deck, was like to knock you down. None of our folk, with one sorrowful exception, took the disease, which was not considered strange by the Irish, for they accounted the taking away of the sick, especially of the young, as a sign of favor by the saints, who carried them to glory. The exception was my husband. When about to raise a tin of tea to his lips one morning, he saw a child looking at him from her berth with such entreating eyes, that he went over and held the vessel to the girl’s mouth. When she was satisfied, he drank what was left. Three days after he complained of a racking headache, which was followed by a chill, after that the fever set in. Just because he was such a lusty man the disease went hard with him, and on the tenth day of his illness I saw there was no hope. It was in the afternoon as I sat by him, listening to his ravings, that he suddenly sat up, and pointing to the shaft of sunshine that poured down the hatchway into the dark and loathsome hold, he said, “It fa’s on the Cheviots and glints on the Tweed e’noo; let me bask in’t once mair.” We carried him over and laid him in the sunlight. The delirium left him, and a sweet smile came to his face. “Hae ye onything to say?” I whispered in his ear. “No, Mailie,” he answered softly, “I am quite happy an’ feel the grip o’ my Saviour’s han’: God will be wi’ you and the bairns.” He never opened his een mair, but the smile lingered on his lips until the sun began to sink, and as he felt the glow leave his cheek, he muttered, “It’s growin’ late and the nicht will be ower cauld for the lammies; I’ll ca’ the ewes frae the knowes,” and so saying he slipped awa wi’ the Great Shepherd o’ the Sheep to the lown valley and the still waters. Though my sorrow was like to rive my head, I kept my composure, for there was work to be done, and nothing can excuse neglect of duty. I prepared him for burial, and when all was ready, an old friend, a brother shepherd of my husband from a boy, gave out the 90th psalm, and when it had been sung, he read the 14th chapter of John, and offered up a most soul-striving prayer, so that, when the corpse was lifted, there was not a dry cheek. We followed as it was carried to the deck. The ship was on the banks of Newfoundland, and the ocean was a dead calm, the new moon lighting up the thin haze of mist that lay upon it. I had wrapped my husband in his plaid, and thrust his crook lengthways through the outer fold. Holding each an end of it, two of the strongest of our men swung the body well out from the ship’s side. As it disappeared I felt that my love for man as wife had gone with it, and such a sense of desolation came over me as words cannot tell.

Five days after we came to quarantine, where the sick were landed, and, just five weeks and two days from the time we left Scotland, we sailed into Quebec harbor. We were a small and heartbroken handful. Our chests had been brought on deck and we sat on them, waiting for the steamer to come alongside that was to carry us to Montreal. None of our folk had asked me what I was going to do, and I knew the reason. It was not that they were unwilling to help me, but because they had more than they could do to mind themselves. They felt for me sore, but they could not take the bite out of their own children’s mouths to give to mine. Indeed, there was hardly one of them who knew what they were going to do, for they had come to Canada to seek new homes on chance. I had had my own thoughts and had marked out what I would try to do.

“There’s the steamer; get yer bairns thegither and I’ll look to yer kists.”

It was a hard-favored man that spoke, a shepherd named Braxton from Cumberland, who all the voyage had hardly said a word. Glad of his help I followed him. He bought milk and bread for us when the steamer called at Three Rivers, but never saying aught until Montreal was in sight.

“What beest thou gaun to do?” he asked. I said I was going to bide in Montreal and try to get something to do. I was strong and had a pair of good hands. He gave a kind of snort.

“Ye canna mak eneugh to keep five bairns; ye’d better come wi’ me.”

“Where till?” I asked.

“I dinna knaw yet, but I’se get lan’ somewhere near and ye’se keep house for me.”

“Are ye a single man?” He nodded. I sat thinking. He was a stranger to me beyond what I had seen of him on the ship. Could I trust him? Here was a home for my children in the meanwhile. For their sake would I do right to refuse the offer? My mind was made up, and I told him I would go with him.

“I canna offer thee wages,” he said.

“I dinna ask any.”

“Very well,” he replied, and no more was said.

By this time they had yoked the steamer to a string of oxen, which helped it up the current into the harbor, and in course of an hour we were in Sandy Shaw’s tavern. In answer to Braxton, the landlord told him of there being bush land easy to be had near to the city. Next day at sunrise he left to see it, and it was after dark on the third day when he came back. He had got a lot on the Chateaugay, and we were to start for it early next day. I had the children dressed soon after daylight, and the three youngest rode on the French cart that was hired to take our chests to Lachine. The rest of us followed on foot. It was a fine morning, but very warm, and the road was deep with dust, which the wind raised in clouds like to choke us. When we got to Lachine we were disappointed to find that the ferryboat was unable to leave her wharf owing to the strong wind blowing down the lake and which had raised a heavy sea. We sat on our boxes and spent a weary day, my head being just like to split with the heat and the shouting and jabbering of the bateau men. There were several hundred emigrants waiting besides ourselves, for the Durham boats could not start until the wind changed. We could not get a bite to buy, for the Canadians were afraid of us on account of the fever, and they had reason, for among those waiting were many who had been sick of it, and there were some who were so white and wasted that you would say the hand of death was upon them. Towards sunset the wind fell and the lake got calmer, so the ferry boat started. Her paddles were not driven by a steam-engine but by a pair of horses, which went round and round. It was going to be moonlight, so when we were put off at the Basin, we thought we would push on to Reeves’s, for it would be cooler than to walk next day, and we might thereby catch the canoes Braxton had bespoke. A cart was hired to convey our chests and the younger children, and we set off. We got along very well for about five miles, when we heard distant thunder, and half an hour after the sky was clouded and we saw a storm would soon burst. We knocked at the doors of several houses, but none would let us in. As soon as the habitants saw we were emigrants, they shut the door in our face, being afraid of the fever. When the rain began to fall, the boy who was driving halted beneath a clump of trees by the river-side, and I got under the cart with the children. It just poured for about half an hour and the lightning and thunder were fearful. We were soon wet to the skin, and I felt so desolate and lonesome, that I drew my shawl over my head, and, hugging my youngest child to my bosom, had a good cry. Those born here cannot understand how castdown and solitary newcomers feel. For months after I came, the tear would start to my eye whenever I thought of Scotland. Well, the storm passed, and the moon came out bright in a clear sky. It was much cooler, but the roads were awful, and we went on, slipping at every step or splashing through mud-holes. Had I not been so much concerned about the children, I could never have got through that night; helping and cheering them made me forget my own weariness. It was getting to be daylight when the cart at last stopped in front of a long stone house, in which there was not a soul stirring, though the doors were all open. The boy pointed us to where the kitchen was and turned to unyoke his horse. I found four men sleeping on the floor, who woke up as we went in. They were French and very civil, giving up the buffaloes they had been sleeping upon for the children. I sat down on a rocking-chair, and fell at once asleep. The sound of somebody stamping past woke me with a start. It was the master of the house, a lame man, whom I found out after to be very keen but honest and kind in his way. It was well on in the day, and breakfast was on the table. I was so tired and sore that I could hardly move. Braxton came in and asked if we were able to go on, for the canoes would be ready to start in an hour. I was determined he should not be hindered by me, so I woke up the children, washed and tidied them as I best could, and then we had breakfast, which did us a deal of good. There were two canoes, which were just long flat boats, with two men in each to manage them. Our baggage and ourselves were divided equally between them, and we started, everything looking most fresh and beautiful, but the mosquitoes were perfectly awful, the children’s faces swelling into lumps, and between them and the heat they grew fretful. For a long way after leaving Reeves’s there were breaks in the bush that lined the river banks--the clearances of settlers with shanties in front--but they grew fewer as we went on, until we would go a long way without seeing anything but the trees, that grew down to the water’s edge. Getting round the rapids was very tiresome, and it was late in the day when the men turned the canoes into a creek and pulled up alongside its west bank. This was our lot and where we were to stay. Placing our boxes so as to form a sort of wall, the canoemen felled some small cedars for a roof, and, lighting a fire, they left us. I watched the boats until they were out of sight and the sound of their paddles died away, and then felt, for the first time, what it is to be alone in the backwoods. There was so much to do that I had no time to think of anything, and the children were happy, everything being new to them. The kettle was put on and tea made, and we had our first meal on our farm--if you had seen it, with the underbrush around us so thick that we could not go six rods, you would have said it never could be made a farm.

We slept that night under our cover of cedar bushes and slept sound. In the morning Braxton and my oldest boy started down the track, for it was no road, that followed the bank of the Chateaugay, to see if the settlers below would help to raise a shanty, and while they were gone I did my best to get things into order. For all I had come through, there was lightness in my heart, for there is a freedom and hopefulness in living in the woods that nothing else seems to give one, and I made child’s play of discomforts that would have disheartened me had I been told of them before leaving Scotland. It was nigh noon when Braxton came back. He had been made welcome everywhere, all were glad to have a new neighbor, and the promise given that word would be sent to all within reach to come to a bee next day. After dinner he took the axe and tried his hand at chopping. He began on a tree about half a foot thick and was nicking it all round, we looking on and admiring.

“Ye’ll kill somebody with that tree,” said a voice behind us, and turning, to our astonishment we saw a tall woman, in a poke-bonnet, looking on. Explaining that it was necessary to know how a tree would fall, she pointed how any direction could be secured by the way it was chopped, and, seizing the axe, she showed how, and, under her strokes, the first tree fell amid the shouts of the children. She was the wife of our nearest neighbor, and, on hearing of our arrival, had come over to see us, “Being real glad,” as she said, “to have a woman so near.” She stayed an hour, and after finding out all about us, showed me how to do a great many things needful in bush-life. Among the rest, how to make a smudge to protect us from the mosquitoes, which was a real comfort.

Next morning six men came and spent the day in clearing space for the shanty and in making logs for it. The day after, Braxton with two of the men went to Todd’s to buy boards and rafted them down the river. On the third day the raising took place, and that night, though it was not finished, we slept in it, and proud we were, for the house as well as the land was our own. It was quite a while before Braxton could finish it, for there was more pressing work to do, and for a month and more our only door was a blanket. The fire was on the hearth with an open chimney made of poles covered with clay. And here I must tell of my first trial at baking. We had brought a bag of flour and, once established in our shanty, I resolved to make a loaf. As you know, in Scotland there is no baking of bread in the houses of the commonality, and though nobody could beat me at scones or oat cake, I had never seen a loaf made. I thought, however, there was no great knack about it. I knew hops were needed, and sent one of my boys with a pail to borrow some from my neighbor, who sent it back half full. I set to work, and after making a nice dough I mixed the hops with it, and moulded a loaf, which my oldest son, who had seen the process while visiting round, undertook to bake. He put it into a Dutch oven, or chaudron, and heaping hot ashes over it, we waited for an hour, when the chaudron was taken out and the cover lifted. Instead of a nice, well-raised loaf, there was at the bottom of it a flat black cake. “Maybe it will taste better than it looks,” says I, thrusting a knife at it, but the point was turned, and we found our loaf to be so hard that you could have broken it with a hammer. And the taste! It was bitter as gall. Well, that was a good lesson to me, and I was not above asking my neighbors after that about matters on which I was ignorant.

No sooner had shelter been provided for us, than we all turned to with hearty will to clear up a bit of land. My boys were a great help, and the oldest got to be very handy with the axe, which was well, for Braxton never got into the right hang of using it, and spent double the strength in doing the same work my boy did. There is quite an art in chopping. It was exhausting work clearing up the land, being quite new to us and the weather very hot. Often had Braxton to lay down his axe and bathe his head in the creek, but he never stopped, working from dawn to darkening, and when it was moonlight still longer. I helped to brush and log, as much to encourage my boys to work as for all I could do. When ready to burn, three neighbors came to show us how to do it and, the logs being large and full of sap, it was a slow and laborious job. The men looked like Blackamoors, being blacker than any sweeps, from smoke and the coom that rubbed off the logs, while the sweat just rolled down them, owing to the heat of the fires and the weather. We came on to our lot on the 29th of May and it was well on in June when the remains of the logs were handspiked out of the way and the ground was kind of clear between the stumps on half an acre. In the ashes we planted potatoes, and a week after, when a bit more land was taken in, we put in a few more. This done, we turned to make potash. Except along the creek there was no timber on our lot fit for making ashes but on its banks there was a fine cut of swale elm. The chopping of the trees was the easiest part of the work, the getting of the logs together and burning them being difficult, the underbrush being very thick and we so short of help in handling the felled trees. A neighbor showed us how to make a plan-heap and skid logs, but from inexperience we did not work to much advantage that summer. We, however, wrought with a will and kept at it, even my youngest, Ailie, helping by fetching water to drink. Young people nowadays have no idea of what work is, and I don’t suppose that one in twenty of them would go through what their fathers and mothers did. Although it was a dry summer, the banks of the creek were soft, so our feet were wet all the time and we had to raise the heaps on beds of logs to get them to burn. Our first lot of ashes we lost. Before they could be lifted into the leaches, a thunderstorm came on and in a few minutes the labor of a fortnight was spoiled. After that, we kept them covered with strips of bark.

The neighbors were very kind. They had little and had not an hour to spare, but they never grudged lending us a hand or sharing with us anything we could not do without. There was no pride or ceremony then, and neighbors lived as if they were one family. One of them who had a potash kettle lent it to us, and it was fetched on a float or sort of raft, which was pushed up the creek as far as it would go. Then the kettle was lifted out and carried by main strength, suspended on a pole. We had thought the chopping, the logging, and the burning bad enough, (the carrying of water to the leaches and the boiling of the lye was child’s play) but the melting of the salts was awful. Between the exertion in stirring, the heat of the sun and of the fire, flesh and blood could hardly bear up. How we ever managed I do not know, unless it was by keeping at it and aye at it, but on the first week of October we had filled a barrel with potash, and Reeves took it away in one of his canoes and sold it in town for us, on the understanding that we were to take the pay out of his store. He made thus both ways, and everything he kept was very dear. I have paid him 25 cents a yard for common calico and a dollar a pound for tea. We could not help ourselves just then.

I should have told you our potatoes grew wonderfully. There is a warmth in newly-burned land or a nourishment in ashes, I don’t know which, that makes everything grow on new land far beyond what they do elsewhere. The frost held off well that fall, and we lifted our crop in good order, except a few that were very late planted, which did not ripen properly. When we landed on our lot, Braxton used his last dollar to pay the canoemen, and I had just 15 shillings left after paying the boards we got at Todd’s mill, so all we had to put us over until another crop would be raised, was the potatoes and what we could make out of potash. We were in no way discouraged. The work was slavish, but we were working for ourselves in making a home; the land was our own, and every day it was improving. The children took to the country and its ways at once and were quite contented. We were cheerful and hopeful, feeling we had something to work for and it was worth our while to put up with present hardship. I remember a neighbor’s wife, who was always miscalling Canada and regretting she had come to it, being satisfied with nothing here. She said to her husband one day, in my hearing, “In Scotland you had your two cows’ grass and besides your wage sae muckle meal and potatoes, and we were bien and comfortable; but you wad leave, and dae better, and this is your Canada for you!” “Can you no haud your tongue, woman,” he replied, “we hae _a prospect_ here, and that is what we hadna in Scotland.” That was just it, we had a prospect before us that cheered us on to thole our hardships.

I counted not the least of the drawbacks of the bush, the lack of public ordinances. There was no church to go to on Sabbath, and the day was spent in idleness, mostly in visiting. Sometimes the young men went fishing or hunting, but that was not common in our neighborhood, where the settlers respected it as a day of rest, though without religious observance of any kind. Accustomed from a child to go to kirk regularly in Scotland, I felt out of my ordinary as each Sabbath came round. To be sure, I taught the children their catechism and we read the story of Joseph and the two books of Kings before the winter set in, but that did not satisfy me. The nearest preaching was at South Georgetown, and tho’ I heard no good of the minister I wanted to go. Somehow, something aye came in the way every Sabbath morning I set. At last, it was after the potatoes had been lifted and the outdoor work about over one Sabbath morning in October, a canoe, on its way down, stopped to leave a message for us. This was my chance, and getting ready I and my two oldest children went, leaving the others in charge of Braxton, and, for a quiet man, he got on well with children, for he was fond of them. I remember that sail as if it were yesterday--the glow of the hazy sunlight, the river smooth as a looking-glass, in which the trees, new clad in red and yellow claes, keeked at themselves, and the very spirit of peace seemed to hover in the air. Oh it was soothing, and I thought over all I had come through since I left Scotland. Tho’ I could not help thinking how different it had been with me six months before, yet my heart welled up as I thought of all the blessings showered on me and mine and thanked God for his goodness. It was late when we came in sight of the church, for the sound of singing told us worship had begun. Dundee was the tune, and as the voices came softly over the water my heart so melted within me to hear once again and in a strange land the psalmody of Scotland that I had to turn away my head to greet. Stepping ashore where the church stood on the river bank, we went quietly in. It was a bare shed of a place, with planks set up for seats, and there were not over thirty present. The minister was a fresh-colored, presentable enough man, and gave a very good sermon, from the 11th chapter of Second Corinthians. While he was expatiating on what the apostle had suffered, something seemed to strike him, and he said, “Aye, aye, Paul, ye went through much but you never cut down trees in Canada.” He spoke feelingly, for he had to work like the rest of his neighbors to earn his bread. One end of the church was boarded off, and in it he and his wife lived. I will say no more about Mr McWattie, for his failing was notorious. When worship was over, it was a great treat to mix with the folk. That I did not know a soul present made no difference, for all were free then and I made friendships that day that have lasted to this. When he heard that I was from the south of Scotland, Mr Brodie would take no refusal and I had to go with him across the river to his house, where we had dinner, and soon after set out to walk home. People now-a-days think it a hardship to walk a mile to church, but I knew many then who went four or five, let the weather be what it might. It was dark before we got home, and that night there was a frost that killed everything. The weather kept fine, however, until December, and we had no severe cold until the week before New Year.

I cannot think of anything out of the common that first winter. Our neighbors wrought at chopping cordwood to raft to Montreal in the spring, but Braxton could not, for he had no oxen to draw the wood to the river-bank, so we went on enlarging our clearance. I forgot to say, that one of our North Georgetown acquaintances gave my oldest boy a pig in a present, and we managed to keep the little creature alive with the house-slop and boiling the potatoes that had not ripened well.

We all suffered from the cold, which was past anything we had any conception of before coming to Canada. Our shanty was so open that it did little more than break the wind, and water spilled on the floor at once froze. We had plenty of wood, but it was green, and the logs were fizzing and boiling out the sap the day long, and it took Braxton quite a while to learn that some kinds of wood burn better than others. At first he was just as likely to bring in a basswood or elm log as one of maple or hemlock. Most of the heat went up the big chimney, so that while our faces would be burning, our backs were cold. It was worst in the mornings, for I would rise to find everything solid, even the bread having to be thawed, and the blankets so stiff from our breaths and the snow that had sifted in that I had to hang them near the fire to dry. We kept our health, however, and after the middle of February the weather moderated. In March a deer, while crossing our clearance, broke through the crust, and while floundering in the snow was killed by two of my boys. After that they were on the watch, and ran down and killed two more with their axes. I salted and dried the hams, and but for them we would have fared poorly. Having no kettle, we made only a little maple sugar that spring by boiling the sap in the kailpot. There was no sugar then like what is made now, it was black and had a smoky flavor.

The spring was late and wet, which was a great disappointment, for Braxton could not burn the log-heaps he had ready and make potash, on the money for which he counted to buy provisions to put us over until harvest. To make matters worse, provisions got to be very scarce and dear, so that flour and oatmeal sold at $5 the quintal, and sometimes was not to be had. One day, when quite out, I went down to Rutherford’s, who kept a bit of a store, and he had neither meal nor flour, but went into the kitchen and brought out a bowlful of the meal they had for themselves. I went over the potatoes we had cut for seed, and sliced off enough around the eyes to make a dinner for us. In June, provisions became more plentiful, for the boats had begun to bring supplies from Upper Canada to Montreal. It was the middle of that month before Braxton had a barrel of potash ready, and the money it brought did not pay what we were due the storekeepers. We were kept very bare that summer, but had a prospect before us in the three acres of crops which we had got in and which were doing finely.

I can never forget that summer from the fright I had about Ailie. She was as sweet a wee dot as there was in the world, so loving and confiding that she made friends with everybody at sight. I was never tired of watching her pretty ways and listening to her merry prattle. We were busy one afternoon leaching ashes, when suddenly my oldest boy asked, “Where’s Ailie?” I started, and remembered that it was over an hour since I had seen her. “She’ll have gone back to the house to take a sleep,” I said, and I told one of her sisters to go and see. We went on again, carrying water, when, after a while, the lassie came back with the word that she could find Ailie nowhere. We threw down our tubs and dishes, and I shouted her name as loud as I could, thinking she was nearby in the woods. No answer came. “She’ll have fallen asleep under some bush, and doesna hear us,” I said, and, with my children, we went here and there searching for her, calling her name, and all without finding Ailie. Braxton was an immovable man, who seldom spoke or gave sign of what he was thinking about, but when we were together again and all had the same report, his mouth quivered. Turning down the wooden scoop with which he had been shovelling ashes, he said, “We’ll dae nae mae wark till we find the bairn.” This time we went more systematically about our search, but again it was without avail. It was a hot afternoon, and the sunshine was so bright it lighted up the darkest nooks of the forest, but in none we explored was Ailie. When we met one another in our search and learned not a trace had been found, a pang of agony went through our hearts. Braxton followed the creek and looked well along the bank of the Chateaugay. It was not until it had become too dark to see that our shouts and cries of “Ailie” ceased to sound through the bush. When we had returned to the house, I stirred up the fire and made supper. When we sat down, not one of us could eat. Braxton bit a piece of bread, but could not swallow it, and with a groan he left the table. We talked over what should be done next, and agreed to warn our neighbors to come and help at daylight, which Braxton and the boys went to do. None of us liked to speak of what may have befallen the child, though we all had our fears, that she had strayed down to the Chateaugay and been drowned or gone into the woods and a wild beast had devoured her. Although they had not troubled us, we knew there were bears and wolves in the swamps to the north of us and there had been even talk of a catamount having been seen. While there was hope I was not going to lose heart, and when I besought the Lord to restore my last born to my arms I thanked Him that the night was so dry and warm that she could come by no ill from the weather. I did not sleep a wink that night, sitting at the door and straining my hearing in the hope that I might catch the cry of my Ailie. Beside the croaking of the frogs and the bit chirrup of some mother-bird that wakened in its nest and tucked her young closer under her wings, I heard nothing. When the stars were beginning to fade I set about getting breakfast ready and wakened the children. I had no need to call Braxton. Poor man, though he said not a word, I knew he had not closed an eye. I insisted on their making a hearty breakfast so as to be strong for the work before them, and in the pockets of each I put a slice of bread and a bit of maple sugar for Ailie, should they find her, for I knew she would be perishing from hunger. Soon after sunrise the neighbors began to drop in until there was a party of over twenty. All had their dogs and some of them had brought axes and guns. It was arranged we should start out in every direction, yet keeping so near as to be always within hearing. By spreading out this way in a circle we would be sure to examine every part of the bush, while two men were to search the river bank in a canoe. We started, some calling aloud, others blowing horns or ringing ox-bells until the woods echoed again, and all without avail, for no Ailie was to be found. What could have become of the bairn? It was as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up. After beating the bush for miles around we gathered together at noon, as had been arranged. Not a trace had been found. We talked it over and over and were at our wits’ end. One lad, new come out and with his head full about Indians, suggested that one of them might have stolen her, and, indeed, it looked feasible, did we not know that the few Indians we had were civil and harmless. Had a wild beast taken her, we would have found some fragments of her bit dress. I was dumb with disappointment and sorrow, and had begun to think I would never see her alive. It was agreed among the men it would be useless to spread out farther, that we were now deeper in the woods than it was possible for her to have wandered, and that we should use the afternoon in going back over the ground we had passed, making a better examination of it. We went back slowly, stopping to look at every log and going through every hollow, and, though there was once a shout that her trail had been struck, it proved a mistake, and our second scouring of the woods was as fruitless as the first. The sun was fast westering when we drew nigh our shanty. About four acres back of it there was a waterhole, a low wet spot which all of us had gone round, nobody deeming it possible for the child to have put foot upon it. As I looked at the black oozy muck, half floating in water, the thought struck me, the toddler could walk where a grown up person would sink, and without saying a word to the lad who was with me, I drew off my shoes and stockings, and, kilting my petticoat, stepped in. How I wrestled through I do not know, but once in I had to scramble as I best could until I reached a dry spot in the centre that was like an island, and on which there was a thicket of bushes. Daubed with muck and wringing wet, I paused when I got my footing. I heard a rustle. I was panting for breath, so exhausted that I was about to sit down for a little, but that sound revived hope in me. I peered through the bushes and saw a deer gazing at me. The creature stared, without moving, which was strange for so timid an animal. I slipped through an opening in the bushes and there, on a grassy plot, lay my Ailie asleep, crusted with muck, and with her arms clasped round the neck of a baby deer; her wee bit face black with dirt and streaked where the tears had been running down. I snatched her to my bosom and sinking down I hugged and cried over her like one demented. Oh, had you heard her joyful cry of “Mammie, mammie!” and seen her lift her bit pinched mou to mine, you would have cried with us. The deer did not stir but stood looking on, startled and wondering, while the fawn lay quietly beside me. This was a mystery, which I soon solved, for I found the fawn could not move from having a broken leg, and the faithful mother deer would not leave her young one. The shout that Ailie had been found soon brought plenty of help, and the first man that came made to kill the deer, but I prevented him and could not, ever after, bear him near me. There are savages among us who cannot see any of God’s creatures, however harmless, in a state of nature, without trying to take their lives. Sportsmen, indeed! Useless louts, who would do the country a service were they to use their powder and shot in killing one another. The fallen tree, by which the deer got across the swale to its well-hidden nest, was found, and I returned by it, carrying Ailie, while Braxton took the fawn in his arms, the deer following. There was much rejoicing at our humble shanty before our neighbors left, and many attempts to account for Ailie’s wandering to where she did. She was weak from want of food and I feared she might be the worse of her exposure, but next day, beyond that she was pale, she was well as ever. From what we could gather from her, we made out tolerably plain how her disappearance had come about. While playing near the house, she saw the deer come out of the woods, jump the fence of our clearance, and begin to browse on the oats. Ailie seeing the fawn ran to catch the bonnie creature, when the mother took the alarm, and bounded back into the woods. In attempting to follow, the fawn struck one of its hind feet against the top rail of the fence, and broke the bone. Ailie caught the wee beastie, and held it in her arms, when the doe returned, bunted her away, and managed to induce its young one to hirple after it on three legs to its lair in the wee swamp. Ailie, wanting to get the fawn, followed, which she could do, for they must have gone slowly. When tired of fondling the creature, she would have returned home, but could not find the way out, and cried and slept, and slept and cried, croodling down beside the wounded fawn, as it nestled under its mother, which, from its concern for its injured offspring, never tried to drive Ailie away. Well, Braxton set the broken bone and the leg got strong again, but before it did the fawn had become so attached to Ailie that it would not leave her, and the mother, which had watched over her offspring in the most touching way, had become so accustomed to us and so tame that it did not offer to leave, running in the woods where it had a mind, and making its home in a shed my boys put up for her. She was torn to death, two years after, by a hound that a Yankee neer-do-weel brought in, but the fawn lived with us until she died of a natural death.

We had a fair harvest that fall, and, when it was got in, we had the satisfaction of knowing that we would have enough to eat until another was ready. There being no oatmeal-mill then in the country, Braxton traded half of the oats for wheat with a neighbor who wanted them for a lumber-camp. There was a grist mill convenient at the Portage, which was burned the following summer, after which we had to send all the way to Huntingdon, where there was a poor sort of a mill. Having no horse, the bag was carried by Braxton on his shoulder. The want of a yoke of oxen was so much against our getting on, that we determined to run some risk in getting one, and saved in every way possible with that in view. The week before New Year we hired a horse and traineau from a neighbor, paying him in work, and Braxton went to Montreal with two barrels of potash. On his way down he had the offer at the Basin of a heifer that was coming in, and instead of buying the cloth intended, he saved the money, and took her on his way home. She was a real beauty, and, out of all the cows we had after, there was not one to me like her, she was so kindly and proved such a grand milker. We were all so proud of her that, for a week after she came, we never tired looking at her, and the children were comforted for the want of the clothing they needed by having her for a pet. You may not think it, but the sorest want of our settlement was clothes. When those brought from the Old Country were done, there was no money to spare to buy others, and families who had plenty to eat were nigh half-naked, you may say, and on very cold days could not venture out. I did the best I could, patching and darning, yet we all suffered much from cold that winter on account of want of sufficient clothing. Braxton, poor man, had only a thickness of cloth between him and the weather, yet he never complained and went to his work in the bush on the coldest days. The exposure, together with hard work, told on him afterwards and shortened his life. When the lumber-camps were breaking up, we had a chance of a yoke of oxen within our ability to pay for, and they were brought home to the barn that had been raised before the snow came. We had not straw enough for three head, but managed to keep them alive by cutting down trees for them to eat the tender ends of the branches. Many a pailful of browse I snapped off for my bossie that spring. It was well for us the grass came early.

I do not know that I have much more to tell that would interest you. The oxen gave us a great start in clearing the land, and that season we did more than all we had done before. We paid the seignior regularly, and once we were a little ahead, it was wonderful how well we got on. Then you must bear in mind, that, as my boys grew up, we were strong in help, and our place improved quickly compared with the generality of those beside us. That fall we got another cow and two sheep, so that we never afterwards wanted for milk or yarn. It was a hard struggle, with many ups and downs, much slavish work and pinching and paring, but in course of time we had all we could reasonably wish and were content.

I was long concerned about the schooling of my children, of whom only two had got any before leaving Scotland. We could not help ourselves until the fourth year of our coming, when a man, lame of a leg, came round and told us he was a schoolmaster. The neighbors consulted and one of them gave a log stable he was not using, which was fitted up as a schoolhouse, and the man set to work. He could teach his scholars little, and tried to cover up his deficiencies by threshing them unmercifully. He was got rid of and another hired, who was more qualified but was given to drink. They were a miserable lot of teachers in those days, being either lazy or drunken fellows who took to keeping school without considering whether they were qualified. In course of time we had a church at Ormstown, Mr Colquhoun, a proud Highlander, being the first minister. When we came, there was only one (old Jones) living where Ormstown stands, now it is a large village, with buildings the like of which nobody could have expected to see. There has been a wonderful improvement all over, and, when I first saw it, to have foretold the country would become what it now is, nobody would have believed. That the people have improved correspondingly I do not think. The money, scraped together by the hard work of their fathers, I have seen squandered by lads who despised the plow, and the upsetting ways of many families are pitiful to see. Folk in the old times lived far more simply and happily.

You want to know what became of Braxton. He died 14 years after we came here. It was in the winter and I thought he had caught cold while skidding logs in the bush. Any way, inflammation set in, and he died within a week of his first complaining. We mourned sorely for him. A more patient or truer soul never breathed, and to the example he set my boys, who have all done well, I set down much of the credit. We counted up his share of the property, and, adding £20 to it, sent it to his sister in England, who was his only relative. I may say all my old acquaintances are gone, for there are few now on the river who were there when I came, and I wait patiently to follow them, living happily, as you see, with Ailie and her children until the Lord is pleased to call me.

JEANIE MORISON.