CHAPTER III.

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 if summer 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 found their 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 was regarded 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 the coffin. 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, the lumbermen 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.

LOST IN THE WOODS.

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 the Basin, 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 old enough 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 so well 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 child in 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, flowing red 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.

AN INCIDENT OF HUNTINGDON FAIR.

A LOST CHILD.

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 to know?” 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 more senseless 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 in this 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 tell me 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 it grew 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.

A NEEBOR LADDIE.

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’s offering 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.

A SHADE OF MYSTERY.

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 man ye’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 old memories, 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 MYSTERY IS CLEARED UP.

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 preposterous hen, 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 an flee 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 president told 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.”

THE SUMMER OF SORROW.

LOOKING FOR THE BOOK.

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 strong men 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 ould Armstrong 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 a candle, 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 it over. “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. By this 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.

HOW THE BOOK WAS GOT.

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 day and 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 brother Jerry 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 it is 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 she was 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 back and 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, “tak this 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 her follow him, and pointed out the road she was to take for her uncle’s place, and by observing his directions had succeeded.

“An so there’s only yirsilf left?” asks my wife.

“Av our family,” says she, “but unless he’s dead since I left, there’s my cousin Gerald in the fever sheds at quarantine.”

Gerald was my sister’s only child and I had heard after her death he had gone to Maynooth to be a priest.

“Do you tell me my nephew, that rode on my knee the day I left Ireland, is in Canada? Why did he not come wid you?”

Then she explained; told us of what he had been to the sick and dying and how the day before she left he had been stricken himself. She wanted to stay with him, but he told her to hasten to her uncle and if he had a mind he might come and help him; she could do no good to stay. I jumps up. “I’ll go,” I cries, “and will bring him back wid me here safe and sound.” As I said that I caught my wife’s eye so pleading like, not to go. But I did. I got my neighbors to look after my hay and off I started next morning, bright and early, to catch the stage at the Potash. When old Mr Oliver heard my errand, he told me to go back to my family, but my mind was made up. When my own brother was adying I was in comfort. I was determined my nephew would not suffer like him and me so near. When the stage came along I jumped into a seat and before darkening I was in the city. All the talk there was about the fever, and how the poor creatures were dying by the hundred in the sheds at Point St Charles. Everybody was in mortal dread of infection and the police had orders to watch that none of the emigrants got past the wharves or out of the sheds, but some did, and they were hunted down and taken back. I kept my whisht as to my errand and listened in the bar-room of the tavern to one story after another, that made the blood run cold to my heart. After an early breakfast next day I left the tavern and walked down to where the steamer sailed for Quebec. It was a beautiful morning and I thought it the prettiest sight I had seen for a long time, the blue river sparkling in the sun and the islands and the other shore looking so fresh and green, with the blue mountains beyant. It was going to be a while before the steamer was ready, for there was a pile of freight to put on board, and I walked up a bit to look round me. In turning the corner of a shed I sees lying on the ground a young lad with a girl leaning over him. I went up to them. “What’s come over you, my boy, that you be lyin on the ground?” asks I. Never a word from either. I went close up and I sees his eyes closed and his face white as death, with his head resting on the girl’s lap. “God save us, what’s wrong?” Never a word. “Can I do anything for you?” I says, placing my hand on her shoulder. She lifted up her head that was bowed down on the young man’s, oh so slowly, and looked at me, her face white and sunk like. “No,” she whispered, “he’s adyin.” “Dyin like this in a Christian land,” says I, “I will get help.” I ran back to where the crowd was and tould a policeman. “They’ll be escaped imigrants,” says he, “and must be sent back, the villins,” and off he comes with me. I led him to the place and he flourished his big stick, shouting, “What div ye mean, coming among Christian people agin orders?” I caught his arm. “Don’t touch them; he’s dyin,” for I heard the rattle in his throat. We stood aside for a minute or so, there was a gurgle and a drawin up of the legs, and all was over. “Oh, my brother, my brother, hev you died afore me,” moaned the poor girl as she tighter clutched his body. “Come wid me,” I said, stooping over and trying to lift her, “I am Irish like yersilf, and will spind my last dollar if need be to bury your brother. Lave him, and I will take you where you will find friends.” I could not loosen her hould on the body. The policeman said he would go for the ambulance and left me. I stroked her hair, I talked to her as if she had been my own daughter; I tried to comfort her. Never a sign or a word. There was a sound of wheels and I looked and saw the ambulance. The men came and I grasped the girl to lift her off the corpse. I caught a look at her face--she was dead too. The ambulance men said that was nothing, that fever patients dropped dead every day without a sign. I looked at the poor colleen as I helped to lift her into the ambulance beside her brother’s corpse, and I knew it was not of the fever alone she had died, but of a broken heart. Och, och, to come to Ameriky to die on the quay. “Drive to the cimitry,” says I, “and I will pay all expinses,” trying to get up beside the driver. “Have you lost your sinses,” says he, “they wad not bury them in the cimitry; they go to Point St Charles, and if yer wise ye’ll tell nobody you handled faver patients and go about your business.” Wid that he cracks his whip, and rattles aff at a great rate. “Well, well,” I said to myself, “at ony rate they will be united in burial as they were in life and death,” and they rest in the field where a big stone tells more than 3000 were buried. I turned with a heavy heart to the steamer, which was ringing a warning bell to get on board and lying down on a pile of bags fell asleep. It was afternoon when I awoke and soon after we were at Three Rivers, where I went ashore and got something to eat. When we had left it a while a steamer hove in sight, coming up the river. We crowded to see her in passing. It was a sight that sunk like a stone on my heart. Her lower deck was chuck full of women and childer and men, all in rags, and with faces as sharp as hatchets from starvation, and most all of them white or yellow from the fever. She passed between us and the wind and the smell was awful. A sailor told me steamboats passed every day like her on their way from quarantine, and never a one reached Montreal without a row of corpses on her upper deck for burial and a lot of sick to be carried to Point St Charles.

It was late in the night when we tied up at Quebec and I took the first lodging-house I found. When I paid the landlord next morning, I asked him how I would get to Grosse Isle. “Ye’re jokin you are,” says he, “people lave it, they don’t go to it.” I tould him my errand. Says he, “Go home, it’s no use; your nevy is dead by this time, an if he isn’t he’ll be dead ony way. It’ll be the death of yoursel to go.” No, says I, I have come awl the way from Huntingdon to save the boy and I wunna go back widout him. Whin he see I was detarmined he told me how hard it was to get to the island; that the city people were afraid of the infection and watched everybody going and would let none come from there. He pointed to the landing-stage where the quarantine steamboat lay and I went to it. There was a sentry at the end and when I made to pass him he ordered me back. “I’m going to quarantine,” says I. “The divil ye be; shtand back; ye can’t pass widout an order.” I was pleadin wid him to let me by whin a voice behind says, “What is all this loud talk about?” I turns and sees a tall man in black, straight as a hickory. “Yer rivrince, this man wants to go to quarantine and has no permit.” “My good man,” says he to me, “you are seeking to rush into danger if not certain death. The sentry does a kindness in turning you.”

“I have a good raison for wanting to go.”

“It would need to be in risking your life and endangering the safety of the community by bringing back infection. What may be your reason?”

I saw he was a gentleman and his kind voice won me. I told him all.

“What is your nephew’s name?”

“Gerald O’Connor.”

“Has he been stricken! They did not tell me when I was last there. He has been one of our best helpers. His only hope lies in instant removal on convalescence and since you have come for that purpose, I shall see you have opportunity.”

With that he says to the sentry, “This man is my assistant today,” and putting his arm in mine he walks me on to the boat, where even the deck hands saluted him. When he walked away with the captain, I axed who he was. “Dat am Bishop Mountain,” says a Frenchman. “Bedad,” says I, “they shpoiled a fine cavalryman when they made a preacher ov him.”

The order was given to cast off and on we went, the river smooth as a millpond. When a long way off we could see rows of white tents and long wooden sheds where the sick lay on Grosse isle, and off the landing we found anchored 17 ships that had come from Ireland or Liverpool and had fever aboard. The wharf was a poor one and we had trouble getting ashore, for the steps were rotten and broken. The gentleman they called the bishop beckoned me to follow him as he walked on, speaking with the friends who came to meet him. When in front of the first shed, before going in at the door, he says to me, “Dr Russell will take you to your nephew,” and with a bow he passed into the shed. I followed the doctor to another shed and, heavens! when we went in the smell nigh knocked me down. The doctor must have seen something in my face, for he says, “Never mind, my man, you’ll soon get used to it.” We passed along between two rows of berths, everyone filled, and an odd man, here and there, trying to attend to their wants. The doctor stopped before a berth where lay a young man, with thick black hair. Seizing his arm he felt his pulse. “This is your man,” says he. I looks at the worn face and with a trimble in my voice I could not keep back, I asks, “Is he able to go away wid me?”

“He’ll go to his grave in a few hours,” says he.

“Doctor, dear, don’t say that; you can save him. I’ll pay you well, if I have to mortgage my farm to get the money.”

“There is no saving of him, poor fellow; he’s going as many like him are going,” and with that the doctor moved away.

I knelt beside my nephew and put my hand on his forehead. It was burning hot. His lips were going and he was muttering something, what I could not make out. “Gerald, won’t you spake; I’m your uncle come to take you home wid me.” Never a word. I went over to one of the men in charge and he pointed where the water was. I filled a noggin and pressed it to my nephew’s lips and wet his face. I watched by him for what seemed a long while and saw others die and heard the groans of those in pain and the screams of those that were raving, and the beseechings for water to drink. I attended to those near by as well as I could, and it was when I was coming back with a pail of water I noticed the flush had left my nephew’s face. I was bathing his forehead when he opened his eyes and stared at me. “I’m your uncle, me poor boy; you feel better?”

“May God bless you,” says he, “but what made you come to this fearful place?”

“Sure its nothing; its little to do for my own sister’s child.”

He squazed my hand and closed his eyes and I knew he was praying for me.

“Bring me a priest.”

A man that was passing told me I’d find one in the next shed. It was worse than the one I left, for it had one row over the other of berths. At the far end I saw a priest, and found he was giving the last rites to an ould man, whose white hair was matted with dirt. I waited till he was done and asked the father to come with me. I left Gerald and him alone, and the priest had no sooner said the last prayer than there was a message for him to go to another poor soul for whom there was no hope. When Gerald saw me, he said, despairin’ like, “Take me out o’ here; ye can carry me. I want to die in God’s free air.” These were his very words.

“That I will,” says I, “and you’ll be home wid me in Huntingdon afore three days.” He smiled a sorrowful smile, and said nothing. I lifted him in my arms and carried him out of the shed. I was powerful strong when I was young, and tho’ he was tall and broad-shouthered he was wasted to skin and bone. I laid him down in the shade of a tree, for the sun was hot. He didn’t look at the river or the hills beyant, but fixed his eyes on a spot that I took to be a burying-place. “Go back,” he whispered, “and bring the bag below my berth.” I went, and found a woman had already been put in the poor bed I had lifted him out of. I reached for the bag and took it to him. Pointing to a spot in the burying-place he told me to go there and I would see a grave with a cross at its head and the name Aileen cut on it. “You can read?” “Yes,” says I. I did his bidding and coming back told him I had found the grave. “Promise me, you’ll bury me beside that grave.” I promised him. “Open the bag and you’ll find in it a little book.” I reached it to him. “Take it,” says he, “there are pages in it I would tear out were I able. Let it go. Save the book; it will tell to those now unborn what Irish men and women have suffered in this summer of sorrow.”

He was wake and closed his eyes. “Is there anything more I can do for yees?” asks I. “Nothing, uncle dear; the summer breeze is sweet.” He never said another rational word, for the fever set in again and he began to rave. He talked as if he were on ship again and then he would change to ould Ireland and he would be aplayin with his comrades, and his laughing was sore to hear. Then there came a long while when he was quiet, just tossing uneasy like at times as he slept. My eyes were on the river and the ships and the green fields bright beyant, when I hears him whisper, “Mother, dear, have ye been long waiting here for your boy?” and he spoke to her tender and soft as he must have done manys the time in ould Ireland. Then it was Aileen he saw, and it was true-lover talk. Oh, it was all so beautiful; the poor boy dying there of the fever on the river bank talkin so sweet and loving with the two women who had filled his heart, an its the lot of love a true Irishman’s heart can hould. I was gripping his hand, watching him, when all at once his jaw fell and I saw the soul had fled. I laid him out as I best could, and rolling the blanket round him lifted the corpse on my shoulder and carried it to the spot he told me. There were shovels and picks in plenty and I set myself to dig the grave. The smell of the fresh earth brought back to me my own family and farm that I had clean forgot that dreadful day, and I determined to be back with them at once. There were men at work near me finishing a long trench, and I saw them watching me and I watched them and listened to their talk. The sun was low before the grave was finished to my liking. There was no use trying to get a priest, they had enough to do with the dying without burying the dead, so I laid the corpse carefully in the grave, said a prayer and filled it in. I drove in a cedar picket to mark the spot, for I meant some day to put a headstone there, but I never did, for I was never able to go back. When all was done I went over to one of the men who had been digging the trench that I had seen by his talk was an Irishman. He was smoking his pipe with the lave, who were waiting for the burial. I got him by himself and told him my errand on the island and now I was done, I wanted away at once. That’s not easy, he said. There were guards to prevent any coming on or leaving the island except by the steamer and with a permit. “Sure,” I says, “if I stay here till tomorrow I may be a dead man.” “That you will,” says he, “an thin you’ll hev to go as a passenger in the steamboat that takes emigrants right on to Montreal.” “I’ll never go on an emigrant steamboat,” says I, minding the one I had seen. He spoke in French to two men near us. They lived above Beauport, he told me, and while they came, like himself, to bury the dead for big pay, they broke the rules by going home at night, when wind and tide served, in a small boat. If I’d help them to get done, they would let me go with them. The job was like to make me sick, but I wanted away, and agreed. By this time they were beginning to carry the dead from the sheds and tents, and as the men with the stretchers came up they dumped their load into the trench. We straightened the corpses to make them lie close, shovelled some lime over them, and then a few inches of earth, when we were ready for another row. Then the trench was filled and smoothed over. I had put on my coat and was cleaning my shovel when one of the Frenchmen touched my arm and I followed him. We slipped into the bushes and went to the north side of the island, meeting nobody. At the foot of a steep bank we found a boat. We got in, and casting loose the tide, which was making, carried us up until we were a good bit from the island, when a sail was hoisted and we went at a great speed, for the tide had brought with it a stiff breeze. On landing I did not follow the men, for I had something to do I had on my mind. I stripped to the skin, and spread my clothes on the bushes. Going into the water I rubbed my handkerchief and shirt and washed myself as I have never done since. I scrubbed my skin with the sand and sniffed the water up my nose until, for the first time, since morning, I got the stink out of it. It was such a warm night, I was in no hurry to put on my clothes, and didn’t till I thought they were well aired. I may tell you, from the moment I buried my nephew, the fear of the fever came upon me, though I had never thought of it afore. Well, when I was ready for the road, I felt sick, but I knew it was with hunger, for I hadn’t broken bread since morning. Coming to a habitant’s house, the door of which was open, I went to it, but when they heard my tongue, they slammed the door in my face, taking me to be an escaped fever patient. Seeing it was no use, I walked as quickly as I could to Quebec, and made for the lodging-house I had left that morning. There was a light in it, though I knew it must be long past midnight. I went in and there were some sailors drinking and playing cards. The landlord lifted his eyebrows when he saw me, and signed me to follow into a back room. He lit a candle “Were you at the island?” “I was, and am right dead wid hunger.” He brought some victuals and I told him how I had got on. When I had cleaned the plates he showed me to a bed. I rose late next day all right, and left with the steamboat that afternoon for Montreal. The second day after I was home and thankful my wife was to see me. I held my whisht, and never a one but herself knew where I had been.

Well, that is all I have to tell. For a long while after, the sights I had seen followed me, and at night I would wake trembling from my dreams. That passed away, but I never cared to speak of what I saw, and tried to keep the island and its sheds out of my mind. Did any die of the fever in Huntingdon? Yes, Dr Shirriff told me he attended 45 cases, of whom 5 died. Not many were Irish. Emigrants strayed into farmers’ houses and gave the infection. Father Kiernan was that year priest in the old church at John Finn’s. He had gone on duty to attend the emigrants at Lachine. Feeling ill one day he knew he was in for the fever. If he stayed where he was, he would die in the sheds, so he waited till the stage came along, got in, and rode home. When he got off at his lodging, he told the people Geordie Pringle did not know what kind of a customer he had. Next day he could not lift his head, but he pulled through all right. What came of the colleen? She left us that fall. Her mother’s brother in county Kent wrote for her. She married a storekeeper in Chatham, who left her well off. The little book is all I took belonging to my nephew. There were more things in the bag. I was afeared of the infection and never touched them. He must have had a chest or two, but I never asked for them. He was a good man, and I’ve been thankful ever since I went to see him die.

Driving home in the dark I thought over what the old man had told me, and felt how much more interesting his narrative made his nephew’s diary, a faithful reprint of which I now present to the reader.

THE JOURNAL OF GERALD KEEGAN.

“The famine was heavy upon all the land.” According to the chronologists more than three thousand years have passed since the event recorded in these words. Strange that, after so long a period of time has gone, the world has made so slight an advance in providing food for the mouths it contains. At school today there was not a scholar who was not hungry. When I told Mike Kelly to hold out his hand for blotting his copy, he says, “I did not mane to: it was the belly gripe did it.” I dropped the ferule and when the school was dismissed slipped a penny into his hand to buy a scone at the baker’s. The poor school I have had this winter takes the heart out of me. My best scholars dead, others unfit to walk from their homes for weakness. For men and women to want is bad enough, but to have the children starving, crying for the food their parents have not to give them, and lying awake at night from the gnawing at their little stomachs; oh, it is dreadful. God forgive those who have it, and will not share their abundance even with His little ones. I came home from school this afternoon dejected and despairing. As I looked round me before opening the door of my lodging, everything was radiantly beautiful. The sunshine rested on the glory of Ireland, its luxuriant vegetation--its emerald greenness. Hill and valley were alike brilliant in the first flush of spring and the silver river meandered through a plain that suggested the beautiful fields of paradise. Appearances are deceitful, I thought; in every one of those thatched cabins sit the twin brothers, Famine and Death. As I opened the door, Mrs Moriarty called to me that my uncle Jeremiah had been twice asking for me. Poor man, I said to myself, he will have come to borrow to buy meal for his children and I will not have a shilling in my pocket until the board pays me my quarter’s salary. I respect Jeremiah, for both he and his brother in Canada were kind to my poor mother. How I wish all the family had gone to Canada; cold in winter and hot in summer, they say, but there is plenty to eat. I took up a book and had not long to wait for my uncle. He did not need to say a word, his face told me he knew what starvation meant. I called to my landlady to roast another herring; my uncle would share my dinner. He came neither to beg nor borrow, but to ask my advice. After high mass on Sunday the proctor got up on a stone and told them their landlord had taken their case into consideration, and went on to read a letter he had got from him. In it Lord Palmerston said he had become convinced there was no hope for them so long as they remained in Ireland, and their only means of doing better was to leave the country. All in arrears, who would agree to emigrate, he would forgive what they were due and pay their passage to Canada. Are you sure, I asked, this letter was really from Lord Palmerston?

“We have just the proctor’s word for it. Well,” my uncle went on to say, “the most of us jumped wid joy when we heard the letter and we all began talkin as soon as he druv aff in his car. Tim Maloney said nothin. He’s a deep one, Tim, a pathriot, an rades the papers. What hev ye to say, Tim? I’m considerin, says he, the likes o’ this must be deliberated on. Sure, I spakes up, the besht we can do is to get away from here. In the wan letther I iver got from my brother in Canada, he tould me he had two cows and a calf and three pigs, an a pair o’ oxen and as much as they could ate. That’s not the pint, answers Tim, this affer prisints itself to me as a plot to get us to lave the land widout an equitable equivalent.”

With doubt thrown on the landlord’s good faith, the poor people went on arguing among themselves, until a majority decided to stand out and demand better terms. On hearing this, the agent sent word they must decide within a week. If they rejected the offer, it would be withdrawn and no new one would be submitted. My uncle had come to get my advice, “For sure,” he said, “you are the only scholard in the family.” I comprehended the infamous nature of the offer. The people did not own the land, but they owned the improvements they had made on it, and had a right to be compensated for them. I knew my uncle when a boy had rented a piece of worthless bog and by the labor of himself, and afterwards of his wife, and children, had converted it into a profitable field. Should I advise him to give it up for a receipt for back rent and a free passage to Canada? I tried to find out what he thought himself. Are you for accepting the offer, uncle?

“That depinds,” he answered. “Give me a crop of spuds such as we had in the ould times, an niver a step wad I muv.”

I told him potatoes had been the ruin of Ireland; that placing sole dependence upon them had made her farmers neglect the proper care of the land and the raising of other crops. When the rot came or even a hard frost, such as they had in 1837, when potatoes froze in the ground, they had nothing. My uncle was a sample of his class. The lessons of Providence had been lost upon them. They would go on planting potatoes and hoping for days that would never return, for the land had become, by years of cropping, potato sick. Now, uncle, that Tim Maloney has had time for deliberating, what has he decided on?

“I mit him at O’Calaghan’s lasht night,” replied my uncle, “an he tould us to rejict the affer an jine the Young Ireland min. There’ll niver be peace and plinty in Ireland, ses he, until she’s free.”

“May be,” I remarked, “but you and your family will be dead from starvation before Tim and his friends free Ireland.” I cast the matter over and over in my head while we were eating our bite of dinner, but could not decide what advice to give my uncle and those who were going to be governed by what he did. Escape from the dreadful conditions under which they suffered would be a great blessing. On the other hand, my sense of what was fair revolted at the idea of their giving up their holdings, their homes for generations, for a nominal consideration. When my uncle rose to go, for he had a long walk before him, I said I could not decide then; I would think it over and on Sunday I would go and see them.

When Sunday came, I rose early, and let myself out quietly. It was a misty, soggy morning. I stepped out quickly, for I had a good way to go. The walking was heavy, so when I came in sight of the chapel, I saw late comers hurrying in for high mass. At the altar, to my surprise and joy, I saw my old companion, Tom Burke. When the sermon came it was like his old self, strong and bold. He compared the afflictions of the people of suffering Ireland to those of the Israelites in Egypt, ascribing the famine to the alien government, which wanted to wipe them from the face of the earth. It would prove as futile as all past persecutions directed against the Irish race, which would continue to cherish their faith and their love of country. He carried me away with him, but his hearers listened with countenances stolid and heavy. It was the hunger; they could think of nothing but their craving for food. Father Tom had noticed me, for when I was going out at the door the man whispered to me to step into the sacristy. Passing the word with my uncle, that I would be at his house in the afternoon, I joined my old fellow student, who would have me to break my fast with him. He had come on temporary duty, and I went with him to the priest’s house. Over the table we recalled old times at Maynooth and were living those happy days over again with joke and story, when our laughter was checked by the housekeeper coming in to say if we were done with our dinner Mrs Murtagh was waiting to see for what his reverence wanted her. “Send her here,” he ordered. A broken-down woman, haggard and in rags, stood at the door. “O ye have come, have ye, Mrs Murtagh.”

“Yes, yer rivirence; Mrs Maloney tould me ye wanted me, and didn’t know what for.”

“Oh, you know what I wanted you for, if Mrs Maloney did not. I wanted to see what kind of a baste you were that would go to the soupers--what kind of Irish woman you were that would sell your faith to thim white-livered divils.”

Father Burke here rose to his feet, his face lit with wrath, and his hand moving to grasp his cross. The woman sunk on her knees at his feet. “For the sake of the dear mother of God, don’t put the curse on me, yer rivirence,” she entreated.

“Why not? What have ye to say?”

“The childher were cryin all night for a bite, but it wasn’t that. Little Tim was adyin on my breast, an I cudn’t bear to have him tuk from me. I wint out, I tried everywhere, I could get nothin, an thin, I wint to the soupers. It was to keep the life in Tim, yer rivirence; I burned their thracks an never tasted myself what they gev me.”

With a piercing cry the woman fell prone on the floor. Father Tom’s anger passed as quickly as it rose. “Take her away,” he said to the housekeeper who hastened in, “I’ll see her after vespers.”

I rose to go; he was his old self again; and with a hearty word we parted. At my uncle’s house I found a number of his neighbors waiting and we were soon discussing the subject that filled their heads. The agent had given out he had got another letter, in which the landlord mended his offer, by promising that his agent at Quebec would pay ten shillings a head on their landing at that city, and saying the Canadian government would give each family a hundred acres free. There was to be no breaking or separating of families; all would go in the same ship. Against the lure of the free passage, the ten shillings, and the hundred acres, they put leaving Ireland for such a wild, cold place as Canada, and to people in rags the thought of its frost and snow was terrible. My uncle fetched his only letter from his brother and I read it aloud. I had to do so several times, as they argued over particular statements and expressions in it. The account it gave of his comfort weighed with them. After a great deal of talk my uncle says, “Well, boys, my brother never told me a lie an I believe every word of his letter. If ye says, I’ll go wid ye, I’m for takin the offer an lavin at onct.” His decision carried them by storm, and the listless downcast men became bright and energetic with the new hope born within them. As I walked home, I thought it over. There was the possibility of their being deceived by the agent. They were ignorant of business and could easily be imposed upon. Should I not go with them and protect their interests? What was there to keep me in Ireland? Everything I had tried had gone against me. When I was in a fair way at Maynooth, the thought had possessed me the priesthood was not my vocation and I left its loved walls. Failure and disappointment had marked every effort made in other callings since. To give up my situation as teacher would matter little; its salary was a mockery. I would see Aileen.

Feby. 28, 1847.--Aileen consents. Like myself an orphan, she has no ties to bind her to dear old Ireland beyond those common to all her children. We will be married the week before the ship sails. Gave up my school today. As I mean to keep a journal of the voyage, I sat down tonight and wrote the foregoing, to remind me in future years of the causes that led to my decision.

March 8.--Uncle came to see me this morning. What he tells me raises doubts of the good faith of the landlord. The agent was round yesterday with an attorney who got them to put their mark to a paper. A ship is promised beginning of April.

10.--Walked to town to see the agent. He was not for showing the paper at first. It was a release of all claims on the landlord and a promise to give him peaceable possession on the 1st April. The remission of what is due for rent and the free passage are specified as the quid pro quo of the landlord, but not a word about the ten shillings a head to be paid at Quebec or the 100 acres per family from the Canadian government. Nothing can now be done; the poor people are at Lord Palmerston’s mercy.

April 9.--We were married Monday morning, and spent three happy days with Aileen’s cousin in Limerick. Arrived here in Dublin today. The ship is advertised to sail tomorrow. Took out our tickets for second cabin and drive tomorrow morning to where the ship is lying.

10.--When the car drove alongside the ship, instead of finding her ready for sea she was a scene of confusion, carpenters at work on her hull and riggers perched in her cordage. There is a mountain of freight to go on board, which she is not ready to receive. It was a shame to advertise her to sail today when she cannot leave for several days. Our second cabin proves to be a cubby-hole in the house on deck. We might as well have gone in the steerage and saved £5. It was late in the day when uncle and his neighbors arrived; they formed a large party, and were footsore with their long tramp. The captain refused to allow them to go on board and they will have to spend the night on the quay. The weather fortunately is dry.

11.--I spoke to the captain on behalf of the emigrants. I showed him they had come on the day advertised and had a right to maintenance. He curtly told me to go and see the ship’s broker, who has his office far up in the city. I waited over an hour in an outer room to get an interview with the government emigration inspector. I implored him to put in force the law on behalf of the poor people shivering on the quay. He haughtily ordered me out of his office; saying he knew his duty and would not be dictated to by a hedge schoolmaster. Came away indignant and sore at heart. Looking over the emigrants I can see why Lord Palmerston confined his offer to those in arrears for rent and who had small holdings. Such persons must needs be widows or old men without proper help. His lordship has shrewdly got rid of those likely to be an incumbrance on his estates. The company is made up largely of women and children, with a few old or weakly men. The number of widows is surprising.

12.--The weather is cold and showery and the poor people are most miserable--wet, hungry, and shivering. I went to Dublin to see the ship’s broker. He received me very smoothly and referred me to the charterer, without whose instructions he could do nothing. The charterer I found to be out of town; the owner of the ship lives in Cork. I returned disconsolate. An infant died today from exposure. On going to see about the innocent’s burial, the priest told me it was common for ships to advertise they would sail on a day on which they had no intention of leaving. It was done to make sure of getting all the passengers they could pack into the vessel. They get £3 a head from the landlords, children counting as half, and the more they can force on board the greater their profit. His experience had been that charterers of vessels for carrying emigrants were remorseless in their greed, and, by bribing the officials, set the government regulations at defiance. Scenes he had seen on the quays drew tears from all save those whose hearts were hardened by the lust of gain.

14--The poor people are homesick and heartsick. Today a number of them tried to get on board and take possession of the berths between decks, which were finished yesterday. They were driven back by the mate and the sailors. One man was brutally kicked by the mate. It seems if the passengers got on board they would have a right to rations, hence their being denied shelter. Some of the men have got work along the quays, and every sixpence is a help to buy bread. Again ventured to remonstrate with the captain. He said he had nothing to say to an informer, referring to my visit to the government agent. I told him I would report his conduct to Lord Palmerston, and have just written a letter to his lordship.

15.--Matters have been going on from bad to worse. Two more children have died from cold and want. Not a soul in the crowd has had a warm bite since they left home. Their food is an insufficiency of bread, which is poor sustenance to ill-clad people camped in open sheds. The ship is ready for sea yet they will not let us go on board.

16.--This morning we were ordered to go on board and gladly hurried up the long plank. We had not been fairly settled in her until there was a hurroo, and looking ashore I saw a great crowd of men carrying bundles and babies, with women and children. They were worse clad and more miserable than our own people. To my surprise they headed for our ship and were soon crowding into her until there was not room to turn. No sooner was the last chest got on board than the sailors began to unmoor the ship. Before they were done a tug steamed up to us and passed her hawser. We had moved out into the bay some distance, when the paddles of the tug stopped, and we saw a six-oared cutter making for us, and when alongside the government inspector, in blue uniform with gilt buttons, leapt on board. He looked neither to left nor right, but walked with the captain across the quarter-deck and went down into the cabin. My mind was made up. My people had already suffered much at the hands of the shipping-men, and I resolved to protest against their being overcrowded. I knew the law, and knew full well that she had all on board she was competent for before this new arrival. I waited my opportunity, and when I saw the inspector emerge from the companion-way and head straight for his boat, I rushed forward. I had just shouted the words, “I protest--,” when I was tripped from behind. As I fell headlong, I heard the inspector say, “Poor fellow, has had a drop too much. Good-bye, captain; prosperous voyage.” When I rose to my feet he was gone, and the mate faced me. “Damn you,” he shouted, “try to speak to an outsider again and I’ll brain you.” Mortified at my failure and indignant at my usage, I left the quarter-deck. The tug was in motion again, and we were sailing down the bay--fair Dublin bay, with its beautifully rounded slopes and hills, bright with budding woods and verdant sward. To our surprise, for we thought we had started on our voyage, the tug dropped us when we had gone down the bay a bit, and our anchor was let go. Late in the evening the word went round the reason of our not sailing was that the crew, from the captain down to the apprentices, believed the ship would have no luck were she to begin her voyage on a Friday.

17.--At daybreak we were roused by the clanking of the capstan as the anchor was weighed. There was a light air from the north-east. Sails were spread and we slowly beat out of the bay and took a long slant into the channel, dropping our pilot as we passed Kingstown. Stores were broached and biscuit for three days served. They were very coarse and somewhat mouldy, yet the government officer was supposed to have examined and passed them as up to the requirements of the emigration act. Bad as they were, they were eagerly accepted, and so hungry were the people that by night most of them were eaten. How shamefully the ship was overcrowded was now to be seen and fully realized. There were not berths for two-thirds of the passengers, and by common consent they were given up to the aged, to the women and the children. The others slept on chests and bundles, and many could find no other resting place than the floor, which was so occupied that there was no room to walk left. I ascertained, accidentally, that the mate served out rations for 530 today. He counts two children as one, so that there are over 600 souls on board a ship which should not legally have 400, for the emigrant act specifies 10 square feet of deck to a passenger. Why was this allowed? What I heard a man telling this morning explains all. The government had sent £200 to be spent on relief works in his townland by giving employment at a shilling a day. When £50 had been paid out, the grant was declared to be exhausted. Where did the £150 go? Into the pockets of a few truly loyal defenders of the English constitution and of the Protestant religion. The British parliament has voted enough money to put food in every starving mouth in Ireland. Half and more of the money has been kept by bloodsuckers of the English garrison. I get mad when I think of all this. The official class in Ireland is the most corrupt under the sun. A bribe will blind them, as I saw yesterday, when the inspector passed our ship and stores. Wind continued light all forenoon, and fell away in the afternoon to a calm. After sunset a breeze sprung up from the west, but did not hold, and as I write we are becalmed in mid-channel.

18.--Light and baffling breezes from the west and north-west prevailed all day, so we made little progress on the long journey before us. One of our many tacks brought us close to the English coast. It was my first and likely to be my last view of that country. Aileen has made our cabin snug and convenient beyond belief. Her happy disposition causes her to make the best of everything.

19.--The westerly breezes that kept us tacking in the channel gave place, during the night, to a strong east wind, before which the ship is bowling at a fine rate. Passing close to the shore we had a view of the coast from Ardmore to Cape Clear. Aileen sat with me all day, our eyes fixed on the land we loved. Knowing, as it swept past us, it was the last time we would ever gaze upon it, our hearts were too full for speech. Towards evening the ship drew away from it, until the hills of Kerry became so faint that they could hardly be distinguished from the clouds that hovered over them. When I finally turned away my eyes from where I knew the dear old land was, my heart throbbed as if it would burst. Farewell, Erin; no matter how far from you I may roam, my heartstrings are woven to you and forget you I never shall. May the centuries of your sorrows soon be completed, and peace and plenty be yours forever. Land of my fathers, shrine of my faith, a last farewell!

20.--When I awoke this morning I became sensible of the violent motion of the ship. Going out I saw we were fairly on the bosom of the Atlantic and the ship was plunging through the ocean swell. The east wind still held and we were speeding on our course under full sail. I found my fellow-passengers to be in a deplorable condition. The bulwarks were lined with a number who were deadly seasick. Going between decks the scene nigh overcame me. The first time I went below I was reminded of a cavern--long and narrow and low in ceiling. Today it was a place for the damned. Three blinking oil lanterns cast light enough to show the outlines of forms that lay groaning on the floor, and give glimpses of white stony faces lying in the berths, a double tier of which surround the sides of the ship. A poignant wail of misery came through an atmosphere of such deadly odour that, for the first time, I felt sick, and had to beat a retreat up the narrow ladder. The cool ocean breeze revived me and Aileen, who proved a good sailor, had our modest breakfast ready when I joined her. On revisiting the steerage later in the day I found there were passengers down with more than seasickness. There are several cases of dysentery. I asked the steward to tell the captain. He informs me the captain can do nothing, having only a small medicine-chest for the crew. However he told him, and the captain ordered the steward to give them each a glass of whisky. I had plain proof today of my suspicions that drink is being sold, and on charging the steward he told me it was the custom for the mates of emigrant ships to be allowed to do so, and he would get me what I wanted at any time for sixpence a noggin. I told him I had taken the pledge at the hands of Father Matthew and considered drink unnecessary. My remonstrances fell on stony ground, for the steward, a decent, civil fellow, sees no wrong in drinking or in selling drink.

21.--The first death took place last night, when a boy of five years succumbed to dysentery. In the afternoon a wail suddenly arose from the hold--a fine young woman had died from the same cause. Both were dropped into the sea at sunset. There are fewer seasick today, but the number ill from dysentery grows. Cornmeal was served out today instead of biscuit. It was an injury instead of a sustenance, for it being impossible to make stirabout of it owing to no provision having been made for a galley for the passengers, it had to be mixed with water and eaten raw. Some got hot water, but most had to use cold. Such food when dysentery threatens is poison. Today was cold with a headwind that sent the spray flying over the bows. Had a long talk this afternoon with a very decent man who is going to Peterborough, Canada West. He thinks it is not disease that ails the children, but cold and hunger. Food and clothes is what they need, not medicine. The number of sick grows. Sighted 2 ships today, both too far away to speak them.

22.--Why do we exert ourselves so little to help one another, when it takes so little to please? Aileen coaxed the steward to let her have some discarded biscuit bags. These she is fashioning into a sort of gowns to cover the nakedness of several girls who could not come on deck. The first she finished this afternoon, and no aristocratic miss could have been prouder of her first silk dress than was the poor child of the transformed canvas bag, which was her only garment.

23.--This is Sunday. The only change in the routine of the ship that marks the day is that the sailors gave an extra wash down to the decks and after that did no work except trim the sails. They spent the forenoon on the forecastle mending or washing their clothes. During the afternoon it grew cold, with a strong wind from the northeast, accompanied by driving showers. Towards sunset the sea was a lather of foam, and the wind had increased to a gale. When the waves began to flood the deck, the order was given to put the hatches on. God help the poor souls shut in beneath my feet! With hatches open, the hold was unbearable to me. With them closed, what will it be by morning? It is growing so dark I cannot see to write more, for a light is forbidden to us. The wind is still rising and the thump of the waves as they strike the ship’s side grows more violent. The shouting of orders, the tramp and rush of the sailors to obey them, the swaying of the ship, the groaning of her timbers and masts, and the constant swish of water rushing across the deck, combine to make me most melancholy and forebodings of evil darken my soul. Aileen is on her knees, the calm and resignation of a saint resting upon her face. There is a faith in God that rises above the worst of the world’s trials.

24.--We had a dreadful night, and I slept only by snatches. At midnight the tempest seemed to reach its heighth, when its roar drowned all other sounds. The ship swayed and rolled as if she would capsize, while ever and anon she shipped a sea that flooded our little cabin, and threatened to tear the house, of which it forms part, from its fastenings and carry it overboard. How I prayed for daylight! When at last the dawn of another day came, the wind lessened somewhat in its force, but the waves were higher and stronger, and while the ship was still shuddering from the dreadful blow dealt by one, another struck her, and made her stagger worse than before. Peering out of the side-scuttle I could see naught but a wild tumult of waters--yawning abysses of green water and moving mountains crested with foam. The writhing, ceaseless activity of the raging waters deeply impressed me. Our ship at one time seemed to be about to be engulfed; the next moment she towered above the highest waves. So far as I could make out she was driving before the gale under her foresail, close reefed. It was noon before it was safe to step out on deck. The wind was dying away but the ocean was still a wild scene. With little way on the ship, she rolled and pitched, so that to keep from falling I had to clutch at whatever I could get a hold of. The sails were slatting against the masts with a noise like thunder. It was late in the day when a breeze came up, which steadied the vessel and caused her to ship no more water, when the mate ordered the hatches to be opened. I was standing by, concerned to know how it had gone with my people. The first man to come up was my uncle. He had been waiting anxiously to see me. His wife had taken ill during the night, and he was afraid her trouble was the fever. I hurried down with him and found her pulse high and her body racked with pains. All that we had in our power to do for her was to give a few drops of laudanum from a bottle Aileen had brought with her, which eased her pains and gave her some rest. Aileen wanted to go and see her but I would not allow her, the sights and stench of between decks being revolting and past description. Uncle says the passengers passed a dreadful night. The seams opened in the forepeak, and the water coming in caused a panic, the belief being the ship was about to sink. One old man was thrown against a trunk and had three ribs broken and a girl, ill from dysentery, died during the worst of the storm.

25.--Tired and worn out as I was, I had a broken night’s rest. I woke with a start from a dream that uncle’s wife was dead. So impressed was I that such was the case, that I dressed hurriedly to go and see. As I stepped on deck 8 bells were struck, indicating midnight. It was clear though cold, and the stars could be seen to the horizon. The column of heated air that rose from the hatchway was peculiarly fetid, but I did not hesitate to descend. Except for the cries and groans of the sick stillness prevailed. Exhausted by the watching of the preceding night all who could were asleep. On getting to uncle’s berth, I found him sleeping heavily, his wife tossing by his side with the restlessness of her disease. She was dosing and muttering, showing she was not herself. I tried to catch the words she uttered, and found in her delirium she was back in Ireland and to the happy days when uncle was a wanter and was coming to see her. I searched high and low before I found a pannikin of water. I raised her head and held it to her lips. She drank it to the last drop. Slipping back to my bunk, I slept until it was late in the day. My first thought on opening my eyes was, that it was my duty to speak to the captain, and as I took breakfast with Aileen I thought how I could approach him with some hope of success. I kept on deck watching my chance. The captain came up only for a short time at noon to take the sun, and then the mate was with him. I knew it was no use to speak when that fellow was near. After dinner I saw the mate go to his cabin for a sleep, and waited anxiously for the captain. When he did step from the companion and had taken a round or two on the poop, I stepped up. He looked surprised and as if he resented my intrusion. Before he could speak I said--“Pardon me, captain, for coming here. I thought you might not know what is on board ship.”

“What do you mean?” he asked roughly.

“There is fever on board,” I answered quietly. He paled a little, and then shouted, “You lie; what do you know about fever? You are not a doctor.”

“Come and see for yourself,” I said, “you have not been ’tween decks since we left Dublin.”

With an oath he retorted “Do you mean to tell me what I should do? I want you to understand I know my duty.”

“For heaven’s sake, captain, do it then. Fever is on board and unless a change is made half the passengers may die.”

“What change?” he asked sulkily.

“The steerage wants cleansing and the passengers need better food and more of it.”

“Grumbling, eh; what do they expect? Roast beef and plum pudding? The beggars get the government allowance. Begone, sir.”

I was trembling with repressed indignation but for the sake of those I pled for I kept cool. “Captain, the poor people ask nothing unreasonable. Go and see for yourself the biscuits and water served out to them, and I am sure you will order a change.”

“Complain about the water, too! What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s foul,” I told him, “it smells and bad though it be, there is not enough served out. The sick are calling for water and not a drop to be got.”

“Not enough served out--what do you mean?”

“That the allowance is scrimped.”

He clinched his fist and raised his right arm as if to strike me. “This to me, on my own ship; that passengers are cheated in measure!”

“Strike me, captain, if you will, but by our common faith I implore you to consider the case of my poor people. There are children who have died from starvation and they have been dropped into the sea. There are more dying and you can save them by ordering a larger ration of sound biscuit. There are men and women lying stretched in the fever, will you not ease their agony by letting them have all the water they can drink? They have suffered everything flesh and blood can suffer short of death. In fleeing from the famine in Ireland, do not let it be said they have found harder hearts and a worse fate on board ship. When you know a cup of water and a bite will save life and will make hundreds happy, sure, captain, you will not refuse to give them.”

“You vagabond,” he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with anger, “if you insinuate I am starving anybody I will pitch you overboard. The passengers get all the government regulations allow them and more they shan’t have. Begone, sir, and do not dare to come on the poop again.”

“One word, captain. I have been told you have a wife and children. For their sweet sake, have pity on the little ones and the women on board.”

“Do you hear me?” he shouted. “Leave the poop or I will kick you off. I’ll have no mutiny on my ship.”

I turned and left more sorrowful at my failure than indignant at my usage. My appeal did some good, however, for before the day was over wind-sails were rigged at the hatchways, which did a little to freshen the air ’tween decks. A sail ahead hove in sight during the afternoon, and we rapidly gained on her. At six o’clock we were abreast of the stranger, which was not over half a mile away. She was a small barque and had lost her foretopmast during the gale. She signalled us, but our captain took no notice, and we soon left her a long way astern. Asking the boatswain why she wanted to speak us, he said she likely was short of sails and spars to repair her damage and wanted to get them from us. “And why did the captain not help her?” The boatswain smiled. “They cost money and supplying them would have delayed us.” I had my own thoughts about the sailor who would not give a helping hand to his brother when overtaken by misfortune. If that ship be lost for lack of spar or sail, then that little tyrant who struts our quarter-deck is accountable.

26.--A beautiful morning, bright and milder than it has been. Every sail is drawing and the ship is bowling along at a fine rate. I got up early, being anxious about uncle’s wife. Found her no better. Worse than that, learned there were five besides her ill the same way. There is now not a shadow of a doubt that typhus fever is on board. Since we left port, no attempt has been made to clear the steerage, which is filthy beyond description. When I speak to the men to join in and shovel up the worst of the dirt, they despondently ask me, “What’s the use?” The despondency engendered of hunger and disease is upon them and they will not exert themselves. The steward is the only one of the ship’s company who goes down the hatch-steps, and it would be better if he did not, for his errand is to sell the drink for which so many are parting with the sixpences they should keep for their landing in a strange country. The day being passably warm in the afternoon the children played on the deck and I coaxed Paddy Doolan to get out his pipes and set them jigging.

27.--A dull, murky morning, with a mist that surrounded the ship as the wrapping of silk paper does an orange. It was almost a dead calm and the atmosphere was so heavy the smoke of the galley did not rise and filled the deck with its fumes. The main deck was deserted, save by myself and three old women who sat on the coaming of the main hatchway, smoking their pipes. The cabin boy flitted backwards and forwards carrying breakfast to the cabin, where the steward was laying the table. The boy’s motions did not escape the women, and I noticed them whispering and laughing as if concocting a plot. One presently went down into the hold, while the other two turned anxious glances for the return of the cabin boy. When he did come he loaded up with as many skillets and pans as he could carry. No sooner had he disappeared down the companion-way, than the women ran to the galley, which was deserted, for the cook, having completed his morning’s work, had gone to the forecastle, where the sailors were at breakfast, leaving the dishes ready for the boy to take to the cabin as wanted. In a twinkling the women were out again, one of them bearing a big copper teapot, the steam from its spout showing in the morning air. Hurrying to the hatchway they were met by the woman who had left them, ready with a lapful of tins of every description. Into these the tea was poured and handed below, as quickly as they could be handled. Curious to view the