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Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre filmAs A des taux de rAduction diffArents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul clichA. il est filmA A partl/ de Tangle supArieur gaucne, de gauche A droite. et de haut en bas. en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 "* 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 n ^ Ice? jO nt ii LIFE IN THE BACKWOODS KY SUSAN MOODI^r .* AfTHOR OP " OkoKI KEV MONCTON, •' Floha Lyndsay," Ktc, Etc. Kocjml kc till ^Mt iifflie, .N. y., « •♦.•ondK^UH m»tt«r. 'ipTrl^-ht, 1884, l.» Jmii W. l^sni •'«)««»» Iftandnnt •ntbors, mch as DickenB, Thackeray, Eliut, Carlylo, KuHkin, Scott, Lytton, Black, etc., eto. Each number is issued in neat 13ino form, and tbn typo will bo fonnd larger, and tha paper better, than in uny other cheap scriua published. P. 0. Box 1992. JOHN IV. LOVEIIili COMPAIVT, 14 and 10 Veaey St., New Yorliu y I; BY 0. M. ADAM AND A. E. WETHEBALD 846 An Algonquin Maiden 3G BY MAX ADELEB 295 Random Shots 20 825 Elbow Room 20 BY GUSTAVE AIMABD BOO The Adventurers 10 667 The Trail-Hunter 10 573 Pearl of the Andes 10 1011 Pirates of the Prairies 10 1021 The Trapper's Daughter 10 1032 The Tiger Slayer 10 1045 Trappers of Arkansas 10 1053 Border Rifles 10 1063 Tlie Freebooters 10 1069 The White Scalper 10 r BY MBS. ALDEBDIGE 846 An Interesting Case 20 BY MBS. ALEXANDEB 62 The Wooing O't, 2 Pai .^ each 15 99 The Admiral's Ward 20 209 The Executor 20 849 Valerie's Fate 10 664 At Bay 10 746 Beaton's Bargain 20 777 A Second Life 20 tm Maid. Wife, or VVridow 10 840 Hy Woman's Wit 20 995 Which Shall it Be ? 20 BY F. ANSTEY 80 Vice Ver8&; or, A Lesson to Fathers. . 20 S'M Tiie Giant 8 Robe 20 453 Black Poodle, and Other Tales 20 (310 The Tinted Venus 15 755 A Fallen Idol 20 BY T. S. ABTHVS 496 Woman's Trials 20 507 The Two Wives 15 518 Married Life 15 B;i8 The Ways of Providence 15 545 Home Scenes 15 554 Stories for Parents 15 563 Seed-Timoand Harvest 15 508 Words for the Wise 15 674 Stories for Young Housekeepers, ... 15 579 Lessons in Life 15 682 Oflf Hind Sketches • 15 685 Tried and Tempted 16 430 455 472 351 756 206 227 233 BY HANS CHBI8TIAN ANDEBSEN 419 Fairy Tales 80 BY EDWIN ABNOLD The Light of Asia 20 Per rls of the Faith 15 Indian Sung of Songs 10 BY W. E. AYTOUN Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers 20 BY ADAM BADEAV Conspiracy 2S BY SIB SAMUEL BAKEB Cast up by the Sea 20 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 Eight Years' Wandering in Ceylon. .20 BY C. W. BALESTIEB 881 AFair Device 20 405 Life of J. G. Blaine 20 BY B. M. BALLANTYNE 215 ThoRcdErio 20 226 The Fire Brigade 20 239 Brling the Bold 20 241 Deep Down 20 BY S. BABINO-OOTJLD 878 Little Tu'penny 10 BY OE0B6E MIDDLETON BAYNE 400 Galaski 20 BY AUOUST BEBEL 712 Woman 30 BY MBS. E. BEDELL BENJAMIN 748 Our Roman Palace 20 BY A. BENBIMO 470 Vie IB BY E. BEBGEB 901 Charles Auchester 20 BY W. BEBGSOE 77 Pillone 16 BY E. BEBTHET SCO The Sergeant's Legacy 20 BY BJOBNSTJEBNE BJOBNSON S The Happy Boy 10 4 Aiuc 10 lOVELL^S LIBRARY. BT WALTEB BESANT 18 Thev Were Miirrici 10 108 Let NothliiR Yon DiHmay 10 257 All in ft Gulden Kuir 20 JMiS When the Ship Comefl Home 10 884 Dorothy Fornter 20 em Self or Bearer 10 M'i The \Vorl(i Went Very Well Then . .20 847 The Holy Rose 10 100;^ To Call Her Mine 20 BT WILLIAM BLACK 40 An Adventure in Thule, etc 10 48 A Princess of Thule 20 82 A Daughter of Heth 20 85 Shamlon Bulls 20 93 Macleod of Dare 20 186 Yolanile UO 142 Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. . .2cnted at Leisure 20 458 Sunshine and lloseH 20 4»>5 The Earl's Atom-nient 30 474 A Woman's 1 omptiition i)0 470 Love Works Wonders 20 658 Fair but False 10 5S>3 Between Two Sins 10 051 At War with Herself 15 609 Hilda 10 ObO Her Martyrdom 20 (m Lord Lynn's Choice 10 ()}t4 The Shadow of a Sin 10 0!>5 Wedded and Parted 10 700 In Cupid's Net 10 7U1 Lady Darner's Secret 20 718 A (iildpd Sin 10 720 Between Two Loves 20 727 For Another's Sin 80 ■730 Romance of a Yduuk trirl 20 733 A Quet.n Amongst Women IG 738 A Golden Dawn 10 739 Like no Other Love 10 740 A Bitter Atonement 20 744 Evelyn's Folly 20 762 Set in Diamonds 20 704 A Fair Mystery 20 800 Thorns and Orange Blossoms 10 801 Romance of a Black Veil 10 803 Love's Warfare 10 804 Mftdolin's Lover 20 806 From Out the Gloom 20 8U7 Which Loved Him Beat 10 808 A True Magdalen 20 809 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 810 Prince Charlie's Daughter 10 811 A Golden Heart 10 812 Wife in Name Only 20 815 A Woman's Error 20 806 Marjorie 20 922 A Wilful Maid 20 923 Lady ':!a8tlemaine's Divorce 20 926 Claribel's Love Story 20 928 Thrown on the World 20 92!) UndernShiidow ..20 9.'!() A Struggle for a Ring 20 933 Hilary's Folly 20 9IJ3 A Haunted Life 20 !t;!4 A Woiiiiin's Love Story 20 009 A Woman's War 20 984 'Twixt Smile and Tear 20 9>-<6 Lady Diuna's Pride 20 980 Bille of Lynn 20 988 Marjorie's Fate 20 989 Sweet Cymheline 20 1007 Redeemed by Love 20 1012 The Squire's Darling 10 1013 The Mystery o' Colde Fell 20 BY BEY. JAS. FBEEUAN GLABK 167 Anti-Slavery Days 20 BY S. T. COLEBIDOE 593 Foema 80 ( ^ 8 LOVELL'fl LIBRARY. 90 Y 20 20 20 . ...20 20 20 30 M ..30 10 10 15 10 20 .... 10 10 . .. 10 10 20 10 20 20 20 IG 10 10 20 20 20 20 10 10 10 20 20 10 20 20 10 10 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 ... ..20 20 20 20 . 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 10 20 CLABK 20 E ad BY WILKIE COLLINS 8 The MootiHtone, Part I 9 The Moonstone, Part II S4 The New Magdalen , f)7 Heart and Science 418 "I Say No". ...10 ...10 ,...20 i ,...21) ....20 4:i7 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 fl8;^ The Ghost's Tonch 10 OHO My Lody's Money 10 7-.'2 The Evil Oealus 20 KW The Guilty River 10 D57 The Dead Secret 20 m> The Queen of HearU 20 1003 The Haunted Hotel 10 BY HI70H CONWAY 429 Called Back 15 4(12 Dark Days 15 (iia CirriHton'H Gift 10 617 Paul Vargas : a Mystery 10 tm A Family Aflfair 20 (i(i7 Story of a Sculptor 10 072 Slings and Arrows 10 715 ACardiuul Sin 20 745 LivingorDead 20 760 Somebody's Story 10 B68 Bound b.va Spell 20 BY J. FENIMOBE COOFES C The Last of tlie Mohicans 20 B3 The Spy 20 8«5 The Pathfinder 20 878 Homeward Bound 20 441 Home as Pound 20 483 The Decrslayer 30 467 The Prairie 20 471 The Pioneer 25 484 The Two Admirals 20 488 The Water-Witch 20 491 The Red Rover 20 BOl The Pilot 20 600 Wing and Wing 20 5 1 2 Wyandotte 20 B17 Heidenmauer 20 Bl!l The Headsman 20 5'ij The Bravo 20 527 Lionel Tjincoln 20 529 Wept of Wish-ton- Wish 20 532 Afloat and Ashore 25 5!9 Miles Wallineford 20 543 TheMonikins 20 548 Mercedes of Castile 20 553 The Sea Lions 20 559 The Crater 20 B(>2 Oak Openings 20 570 Satanstoe 20 i 576 The Chain-Bearer 20 687 Wavs of the Hour 20 1 601 Precaution 20 603 Redskins 25 611 Jack Tier 20 BY KINAHAN CORNWALLIS 409 Adrift with a Vengeance 25 BY THE COUNTESS 1028 A Passion Flower 20 1041 The World Between Them 20 I BY OEOROIANA M. CBAIK lOCe A Daughter of t,ho Pcoi.le 20 860 464 845 260 815 478 (HI4 •113 016 645 .30 BY B. GBISWELL Grandfather Llokihlngle .... BY R. H. DANA, JB. Two Years before the Mast. . . . BY DANTE Dantc'fl Vision of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise 20 BY FLOBA A. DABLIT'} Mrd. Darling's War Letters 20 BY JOYCE DABBELL Winifred Power 20 BYALFHONSE DAUDET Tartarin of Tarascon 20 Sidonio 20 Jack 20 The Little Oood-for-Noihing 20 Tno Nabob 26 BY BEV. C. H. DAVIES, D.D. 463 Mystic London .20 BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAULS 431 Life ef SiH!n.ser 10 BY C. DEBANS 476 A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing .20 BY BEV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 704 Evolution 20 BY DANIEL DEFOE 428 Robin.son Crusoe 25 BY THOS. DE QUINCEY 20 The Spanish Nun IQ BY CHABLES DICKENS 10 Oliver Twist 20 38 A Tnle of Two Cities ! ... .20 75 Child's History of England 20 91 Pickwick Pai)ers, 2 Parts, each ..... 20 140 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 144 Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each. . . 15 150 Barnaby Rudge, 2 Parts, each 15 1.58 David Copperfleld, 2 Parts, each ... .20 170 Hr.rd Times 20 192 Great Expectations 20 201 Martin Chuzzlcwit, 2 Parts, each. . . .20 210 American Notes 20 219 Dombey and Son, 2 Parts each 20 223 Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each. 20 228 Our Mutual Friend. 2 Part.^ each.. .20 231 Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, each 20 234 Pictures from Italy 10 237 The Boy at Mugby 10 244 Bleak House, 2 Parts, each 20 246 Sketches of the Young Couples. 10 201 Muster Humphrey's Clock 10 267 The Haunted House, etc 10 270 The Mudfog Papers, etc 10 273 Sketches by Boz 20 274 A Christmas Carol, etc 15 282 Uncommercial Traveller 20 288 Somebody's Luggage, etc 10 2*3 The Battle of Life, etc . . 10 297 Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 298 Reprinted Pieces 80 302 No Thoroughfare 15 437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices.. .. ,10 LOVELL*S LIBUART. ; I. B7 CARL DETLEF 17 Ircno; or, Tho finely Manor 20 BY PROF. DOWDEN 404 Life of Sdiithfy 10 BY JOHN DRYDEN 41W rocma 80 BY DU BOISUOBEY 1018 CoiKkimii'd Door 20 BY THE "DUCHESS" 68 Portia 20 70 Molly Hav*.- 20 78 I'hvlliK *^U Wi Monic'i 10 m Mrs. OiKjlIrcy ao »2 Airv Kiiiry Lilian 20 12«i l.oys, Lord DiTunford 20 132 Moonshiiio itiiil MnrKiioritca 10 lii2 I'.ilih nnil Uniaith 20 ItW Houuty's Di4Ut,'litori» 20 SW4 llowjMioyni! 20 451 Doris 20 477 A Wi'tk in Killanicy lU C.'JO In Diiriinoo Vio 10 018 DU'.W'h Swcotiieurt ; or, " O Tender DoIoich" 20 021 A Miiidcn nil Forlorn 10 (J2-1 A l'iiJ*«ivo Orlrno 11) 721 Liiily Uriinksmcro 20 7."15 A Mc-nliil Striiu'nU! 20 7:^7 Th«! haunted (Jlmmbcr 10 702 Her Woelt'H Aninsoment li' b02 Ludy ValwortliH iJiamonda ,0 BY LORD DUFFERIN 95 Lctterfl from High Lut itudc.s 20 BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 701 Count of Monto Crinfo, I'art 1 20 761 Count of Monto Cristo, Part II.. ..SO 775 The Three (J uurdwmon 20 786 Twenty Yearn After aiJ 884 The Son of Monto Cristo, Part I. . . .20 884 Tho Son of Monto Crinto, Tart II . . . XO 885 Monto Cristo and His Wife 20 891 CounteRS of Monte Cripto, Part I . .20 891 Countess of Monte CriHto, Part II... SO 998 BeauTancrcdc 20 BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JR. 992 Camille 10 BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS 681 AGirton Girl 20 BY GEOROE ELIOT 66., Adam Bode, 2 Parts, each 15 (59 AmoH Barton 10 71 Silas Marner 10 79^ Romoln, 2 I'arts, each 15 149* Janet's Repentance 10 151 Felix llolt 20 174 Middlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20 195 Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, each 20 202 Theophrastus Such 10 205 The Spanish Gypsy.and other Poem820 807 The Mill on the Floss, 2 Parts, each.l5 208 Brother Jacob, etc 10 S74 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- Boole 20 BY M. BETHAM-EDWAR08 20.1 Disarmed 15 WW 'i'ho Flower of Doom 10 1C05 Next of Kin 20 BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 373 EHsuyH 20 ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 3i8 Ilnnyan, by J. A. Fnmdo 10 407 Burke, by John Morley 10 3:M Hums, by Principal Shnlrp 10 317 Byron, by ITofcHsor Nichol 10 413 Chaucer." by Prof. A. W. Word \Q 424 Cowper, by Gold win Smith 10 ;J77 Deftw, by William Minto l(i 3.S3 Gibbon, by J. C. Morrison 10 225 Goldsmith, by William lilnck 10 369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 401 Johnson, by Lesliu Stephen 10 380 Locke, by Thomas I'owler 10 302 Milton, by Mnrk Pottison 10 398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 364 Scott, by K. H. Hutton 10 361 Shelley, by J. Symondu 10 4U4 Southey, by Pri)fes.sor Dowdon 10 431 SiM>nsi!r, by the Dean of St. Paul's. . 10 344 Thackeray, by Anthony TroUopo. ..10 410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 BY B. L. FARJEON 24S Gautran ; or. House of White Shad- .. VH 20 r,rA Love s Harvest 20 K.'-.O Golden Bells 10 874 Nine of Hearts 20 BY HARRIET FARLEY 473 Christmas Stories 20 BY F. W. FARRAR, D.D. 19 Seekers after God 20 50 Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, each 23 BY GEORGE MANNVILLE FENN 1004 This Man's Wife 20 BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 4t A Marriage in 1 liRh Life 20 987 Romance of a Poor Yonns? Man 10 BY FRIEDRICH. BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUaUE 711 Undine 10 BY MRS. FORRESTER 760 Fair Women 20 818 Once Again 20 843 My Lord and My Lady 20 844 Dolores 20 8.50 My Hero 20 8f)9 Viva 20 860 Omnia Vanltaa 10 &)1 Diana Carew 20 862 From Olympus to Hades 20 863 Rhona 20 864 Roy and Viola 20 8(55 Juno 20 8m Mipnon 20 867 A Young Man's Fancy -98 LOV ELL'S LimiAUY. BT THOMAS FOWLER Llfo of Locke 10 BT FBANCESCA m The Su.ny o( Idn 10 BY B. E. FBANCILLON lift A K.'iil QiiufU »« (J..l(lu» Uulls 10 BY ALBERT FRANXLYN 123 Aiiieliiut(K> ISour^' 16 BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 185 MylloKfs 20 BY J. A. FROUDE 48 Life of Bunyiui 10 BY EMILE OABORIAU 114 MonHiour r5 MyHtory of Oroiviil 20 1(11 I'roiiuHe of Marriauo 10 File No. na 20 BY HENRY OEOROE ' 52 ProfriesH .ami I'ovcrty 20 BOO Liinil Question 10 B!« Boeidl Troblenis 20 790 I'roperty in Land 15 BY CHARLES OIBBON 57 The Golden Khaft 20 BY J. W. VON OOETHE B42 Ooethe'H Fnust 20 N3 Goethe's PooniB 20 BY NIKOLAI V. GOGOL 1016 Taras Bnlli\ 20 BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 61 Vicnr of Wiikcneld 10 062 riay3 and Poouih 20 BY MRS. GORE 89 The Dean's Danghtcr 20 BY JAMES GRANT 49 The Secret Despatch 20 BY HENRI GREVILLE. |1C01 Frankley 20 BY CECIL GRIFFITH ► 73a Victory Deano 20 BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 709 No. !»9 10 THE BROTHERS GRIMM B21 Ffiiry Tak-s, Illiistratod 20 BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 40 History of the Mormons 15 BY ERNST HAECSEL 97 India and Ceylon 20 BY MARION HARLAND [107 Housekeeping and llomemaking.. . . 15 BY F. W. HACXLANOEB 006 Forhiddcn Fruit M BY H. RIDER HAGGARD Sl.T King Holonion'.s Mines 20 KIH She 20 MO The Wltcha llcud 20 \m JiHd 20 'Ml Dawn 20 1020 Allan Quatennain 20 BY A. EOMONT HAKE 371 The Story of Uhine«e Gordon 20 BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 16 L'Abbi! C'onMatitin 90 BY THOMAS HARDY 43 Two on a Tower 90 157 Itoinantio Adventures of a Milk- ninid 10 74fl The Mayor of CnHlerbriilgo 20 mt The Woodl.indors 20 iMi4 Far from the Madding Crowd 20 BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. COMFTON 414 Over the Summer Sea SO BY J. B. HARWOOD 209 One False, both Fair 90 BY JOSEPH HATTON 7 Clytio 20 l.';7 CruelLondon 20 BY NATHANIEL HAWTH*. INE .'170 Twice Told Tal.a 20 ;n« Grandfftlher'H Chnir 20 BY MARY CECIL HAY ir.6 Under the Will 10 500 The A rundel Motto 20 nitO Old Myddleton's Money 20 7«7 A Wicked Girl 10 971 Nora's Love Tost 20 ';»72 The Squire's Legacy 20 Wri Dorothy's Venture 20 974 My First Offer 10 975 Hack to the Old Homo i J»7« For Her Dear Sake 20 977 Hidden Perils 20 978 Victor and Vanouished 20 BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 583 Poems 30 BY DA VII J. HILL, LL.D. 533 Principles and Fallacies? of Social- ism 15 BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 356 Hygiene of the Uiam 25 BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 709 Woman agamst Woman 20 7 13 A Wonum's Vengonnco 20 BY FAXTON HOOD 73 Life of Cromwell 18 BY THOMAS HOOD 511 Poems 88 6 lovetl's library. \ \. J?*- I 86 14 nro 093 742 747 758 762 765 774 778 782 786 788 791 795 634 636 61 386 £69 109 •^84 784 784 S64 147 198 199 324 236 S49 S63 872 279 281 29U 299 801 S05 808 810 311 814 BT HOBRT AND WEEHS Life of Marion SO BY BOBERT HOVDIN The Tricks of the Greeks 20 BY ADAH M. HOWABD Against Her Will 20 The ChUd Wife 10 BY EDWARD HOWLAND Social Solutions, Part I 10 Tartll 10 " " Part III 10 " •' Part IV 10 " •' PartV 10 " " Part VI 10 " " Part VII 10 " " Part VIII 10 " " Part IX 10 •• " PartX 10 •» •♦ PartXI 10 '♦ «» Part XII 10 BY MARIE HOWLAND Papa's Own Girl 30 BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. Studies in Civil Service 16 BY THOMAS HUGHES Tom Brown's School Days 2C Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 l'arts,eack . 15 BY PROF. HTJXLEY Life of Hume 10 BY STANLEY HUNTLEY The Spoopendyke Papers 20 BY VICTOR HUGO Lea Miserables, Part 1 20 " " Partll 20 " " Part III 20 BY R. H. HUTTON Life of Scott 20 BY WASHINGTON IRVING The Sketch Book 20 Tales of a Traveller 20 Life and VoyaKea of Columbus, Parti 20 Life and Voyages of Columbus, Part II 20 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey.. .10 Knickerbocker History of New York. 20 The Crayon Papers 20 The Alhambra 15 Conquest of Granada 20 Conquest of Spain 10 Bracebridge Hall 20 SalmagundL 20 Astoria 20 Spanish Voyages 20 A Tour on the Prairies 10 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 Oliver Goldsmith 20 Captain Bonneville 20 Moorish Chronicles 10 Wolfcrt's Boobt and Miscellanies 10 17 44 754 631 111 106 67 39 64 726 728 731 736 254 3r22 324 S35 837 338 454 445 BY HARRIET JAT The Dark Colleen M BY SAMUEL JOHNSON Basselas , ,10 BY MAURICE JOKAI A Modern Midas 90 BY JOHN KEATS Poems 25 BY EDWARD KELLOGG Labor aiid Capital 20 BY GRACE KENNEDY Dunalian, 2 Parts, each IS BY JOHN P. KENNEDY Horse- Shoe Ilobinson, 2 Parts, each. 15 BY CHARLES KINGSLEY The Hermits 20 IlypL,tia, 2 Parts, each 15 BY HENRY KINGSLEY A ustin Eliot . .20 Tho Hillyars and Burtons 20 Loighton Court 20 Geoffrey Humlyn 30 BY W. H. G. KINGSTON Peter the Whaler 20 Mark Seaworth „ 20 Round the World 20 Tho Young Foresters 20 Saltwater 20 The Midshipman 20 BY F. KIRBY The Golden Dog 4b BY A. LA POINTE The Rival Doctors 20 BY MISS MARGARET LEE 25 Divorce 20 000 A Brighton Night 20 725 Dr. Wilmer's Love 25 741 Lorimer and Wile 20 BY VERNON LEE 797 A Phantom Lover 10 798 Prince of the Hundred Soups 10 BY JULES LERMINA 469 The Chase 20 BY CHARLES LEVER 327 Harry Lorrequer 20 789 Charies O^Malley, 2 Parts, each 20 794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each. .20 BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 1 Hyperion 20 a Oiitre-Mer 20 482 Poems 20 BY SAMUEL LOVER 163 Tho Happy Man 10 719 Rory O'Morc 20 819 Handy Audy aC ' 81 1 82 I ^ I 56 . I 69 ] •: 81 ; I 84 I '117 ] 121 I 128 :i62 160 ITi 204 JY «8 LOVELL^S LIBRABr. BT COHMAHDEB LOVETT-CAM- ESON. il7 The Cruise of the Black Prince. . . .20 BT MBS. H. LOVETTCAMEBON 927 PureGold 20 BY HENBY W. LUCY 96 Gideon Fleyce 20 BY HEKBY C. LTTEENS 131 Jets and Flashes 20 BY EDNA LYALL 962 Knights-Errant 20 BY E. LYNN LYNTON 2T6 lone Stewart 20 BY LOBD LYTTON 11 The Coming Race 10 12 Leila 10 81 Ernest Maltravers 20 82 The Haunted House 10 45 Alice: A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- vers 20 56 A Strange Story 20 59 Last Days of Pompeii 20 81 Zanoni 20 84 Night and Morning, 3 Parts, each. . 15 117 Paul Clifford 20 121 Lady of Lyons 10 128 Money 10 152 Richelieu IC 160 Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 m Pelham 20 204 Eugene Aram 30 222 ThoDisowned 20 240 Kenelm Chillingly 20 245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, each 20 an Devereux 20 '.m The Caxtons, 2 Farts, each 15 258 Lucretia 20 255 Last of the Barons, 2 Parts, each ... 15 269 The Parisians. 2 Parts, each 2'J 271 My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 [276 Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 Godolphin 2J »4 Pilgrims of the Rhine 15 17 Pausaniaa 15 BY LOBD M ACAITLAY Lays of Ancient Rome 20 lY KATHEBINE B- MAGQUOIB Joan Wcntworth 20 BT E. MABLITT The Old Mam' Belle's Secret 20 Gold Elsie 20 BY CAPTAIN MABBYAT The Privatearsman ?0 BYHABBIET HABTINEAU Tales of the French Revolution 15 Loom and Lugger 20 Berkeley the Banker 20 |58 Homes Abroad ...15 For Each and For All 15 ra Hill and Valley 15 .1 TheCharmed Sea 15 Life ill the Wilds 15 !t6 Sowers not Renpers 15 JO Qlea of the Echoes 15 BY FLOBENCE MABBYAT. 903 The Master Passion.. 20 904 A Lubky Disappointment 10 905 Her Lord and Master 20 906 My Own Child »0 «.W7 No Intentions 20 908 Written in Fire 20 909 ALitUo Stepson 10 910 With Cupid's Eyes 20 931 Why Not ? 20 9;J7 My Sister the Actress 20 938 Captain Norton's Diary . . 10 939 Girls of Feversham 20 940 The Root of aU Evil 20 9.2 Facing the Footlights 20 943 Petronel 20 944 A Star and a Heart 10 945 Ange 20 946 A Harvest of Wild Oata 20 9-{7 ThePoiionof A»p8 10 948 Fair-Haired Alda 20 919 The Heir Presumptive 20 950 Under 1 ho Lilies and Rose? 20 951 I {eart of Jane Warner. 20 95? Loves Conflict, Parti 20 t>52 Love's Conflict, Part II 20 95-J Phyllida 20 954 Out of His Reckoning. 10 9T9 Her World against a Lie 20 990 Open Sesame 20 991 Mad Dumaresq 20 999 Fighting the Air 20 BY HELEN HATHEBS 165 Eyre's Acquittal 10 1046 Coinin' Thro' th« Rye 20 1047 Sam's Sweetheart 20 1048 Story of a Sin 2'J 1049 Cherry Ripe 20 1060 My Lady Green Sleeves — 20 BY A. MATHEY 46 DukoofKandos 20 60 The Two Duchesses ..20 BY W. S. MAYO 76 TheBerber ^, 20 BT J. H. McGABTHT 115 An Outline of Irish History 10 BT JUSTIN McGABTHT, M.P. 278 MaidofAthens 20 BT T. L. MEADE 328 How It All Came Round 20 BT OWEN MEBEDITH 331 Luciie 20 BT JOHN MILTON 389 Paradise Lost 20 BT WILLIAM MINTO 377 Lifeof Defoe 10 BT MBS. MOLESWOBTH 1008 Marrying and Giving in Marriage . .10 BT THOMAS MOOBE 416 Lalla Rookh 20 487 Poems 40 BT J. C. MOBBIbON 883 Life of Gibbon .10 LOVELL*S LIBRARY. f < 1 ! ■^' \ 1 5T JOHN MOBLET 407 Life of Burke 10 BY EDWARD H. MOTT J39 Pike County Folks 20 BY ALAN MUIR 312 Golden Girls 20 BY LOUISA MUHLBACH 1000 Frederick the Groat and his Court.. 30 1014 The Daughter of an Empress 30 1033 Goethe and Schiller 30 BY MAX MULLEB 130 India : What Can It Teach Us ? .... 20 BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 197 By the Gate of the Sea 15 758 Cynic Fortune 10 BY F. MYERS 410 Life of Wordsworth 10 £Y MISS MULOCK 33 John Halifax 20 435 Miss Tommy 15 751 King Arthur 20 BY FLORENCE NEELY BG4 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 83 lUght and Wrong Uses of the Bible . , 20 BY JOHN NICHOL 347 Life of Byron 10 BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 875 Science ut Home 20 BY W. E. NORRIS 108 No New Thing 20 692 That Terrible Man 10 779 My Friend Jim 10 BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 439 Noctes Ainbrosianae 30 BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 19G AltioraPeto 20 BY MRS. OLIPHANT 124 The Ladies Lindorcs 20 179 The Little Pilgrim 10 175 Sir Tom 20 am The Wizard's Son 25 SOS Old Lrtdy Mary 10 602 Oliver's Bride 10 717 A Country Gentleman 20 Kn The Son of his Father 20 92;) John : a Love Story 20 1>25 A Poor Gentleman 20 994 Lucy Crofton 10 BY OUIDA 112 "Wanda. 2 Parts, ouch 15 127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each .... 20 ?87 Pr'noess Napi-axine 25 fi75 A Rainy June 10 703 Moths 20 790 Othmar 20 K05 A House Party 10 C52 Friendship 20 f53 In Maremma 20 K')4 Signii 20 b50 Ptwcarel 20 BY MAX O'RELL 330 John Bull and Mis Island SO 459 John Bull and His Daughters 30 BY ALBERT K. OWEN 655 Integral Co-operation 30 BY LOUISA FABB 42 Bobin 20 BY MARK FATTISON 392 Lifeof Milton 10 BY JAMES FAYN 187 Thicker than Water 20 330 The Canon's Ward 20 659 Luck of the Darrella 20 BY HENRY FETEBSON 1015 Pemberton 30 BY ED6AB ALLAN FOE 403 Poems 20 426 Narrative of A. Gordon Pym 15 432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 15 438 The Assignation, and Other Tales. .16 447 The Murders in the Rue Morgue 15 BY WILLIAM FOLE, F.B.S. 406 The Theory of the Modern Scien- tific Game of Whist 15 BY ALEXANDEB FOFE 391 Homer's Odyssey 20 396 Homer's Iliad 30 457 Poems 30 BY JANE FOBTEB 189 Scottish Chiefs, Part 1 20 Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 382 Thaddeus of Warsaw 25 BY C. F. POST AND FBED. C. LEUBUCHEB 838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20 BY ADELAIDE A. FBOCTEB 339 Poems 20 BY AGNES BAY 1010 Mrs. Gregory 20 BY CHARLES READE 28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 415 A Perilous Secret »J 7.59 Foul Play 20 773 Put Yourself in his Place 20 913 Griffith Gaunt 20 914 A Terrible Temi tation 20 915 Very Hard Cash 20 916 It is Never Too Late to Mend 20 917 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 918 A Woman Hater 20 919 P.eadiana 10 BY REBECCA FERGUS BEDD 16 408 550 599 101 Freckles 20 The Brierfleld Tragedy 20 BY "BITA" Dame Durden 90 Like Dian's Kiss , SO BY SIB H. BOBEBTB Harry Holbrooke ,,........ .SO 9 LOVELL'S LIBRARY. BY A. M. F. BOfilNSON Aiden 15 BY BEQINA MABIA BOCHE 11 Children of the Abbey 30 BY BLANCHE BOOSEVELT Marked " In Haste" 20 BY DANTE B08SETTI Poems 20 BY MBS. BOWSON Charlotte Temple 10 BY JOHN BUSKIN R7 ScRame and Lilies 10 D5 Crown of Wild Olives Id Ethics of the Dust 10 Queen of tlie Air 10 Seven Lamps of Architecture yO Lectures on Architecture and Paint- S.39 •642 344 677 650 6f)5 668 "873 676 679 B2 685 688 707 708 713 714 123 S99 &33 834 8:^5 &36 997 ing. Stones of Venice, 8 Vols., each 25 Modern Painters, Vol. 1 20 " «• Vol. II -M " " Vol. Ill 20 " *' Vol. IV 2.T » " Vol. V 25 King of the v. ilden River 10 Unto this Last 10 Munera Fulveris 15 " A Joy Forever " 15 The Pleasures of England 10 The Two Paths 20 Lectures on Art 15 Aratra Pentelici 15 Time and Tide 15 Mornings in Florence 15 St. Mark's Rest 15 Deucalion 15 Art of England 15 Eagle's Nest 15 " Our Fathers Have Told Us" 15 Proserpina 15 Val d'Amo 15 Love's Meinie 15 Fors Clavigera, Part 1 30 " Part It 30 " " Part III 30 *♦ *' PartlV 30 BY W. GLABK BUSSELL A Sea Queen 20 John Holdsworth .20 A Voyage to the Cape 20 Jack's Courtship 20 A Sailor's Sweelhnart .20 On the Fo'k'sle Head 20 The Golden Hope 20 BY DORA BUSSELL The Broken Seal 20 BY OEOBOE SAND The Tower of Percemont 20 The Lilies of Florence 20 1 BY MBS. W. A. SAVILLE Social Etiquette 15 BY J. X. B. SAINTINE Picciola 10 BY J. 0. F. VON SCHILLEB 341 Schiller's Poems 21 BY MICHAEL SCOTT 171 Tom Cringle's Log 20 BY SIB WALTER SCOTT 145 I vanhoe, 2 Parts, each 15 359 Lrtdy of the Lake, with Notes 20 489 Bride of Laiuniermoor 2# 490 Black Dwarf 10 492 Castle Dangerous 15 493 Legend of Montrose 15 495 The Surgeon's D.iughter 10 499 Heart of Mid-Lotliiuu oO 502 VVaverley i'O .504 Fortunes of Nigel 20 509 Peveril of the Peak 30 615 The Pirate 20 536 Poetical Works 40 544 Redgauntlet ',5 551 Woodstock 2U 557 Count Robert of Paris 2U fi69 The Abbot 2) 575 Quentin Diirwiird iO 581 The Talisman 20 586 St. Ronan"s Well i'O r)[>^ Anne of Geier.-^tcin 20 6U5 Aunt Margaret's Mirror 10 607 Chronicles of the Canongatc 15 609 The Monastery 20 620 Guy Mannering ~ (i'iS Kenilworth 25 6i9 The Antiquary 20 im Rob Rov 20 635 The Betrothed 90 638 Fair Maid of Perth 20 641 Old Mortality 20 BY EUGENE SGBIBE 22 Fleurette 20 BY PRINCIPAL SHAIBP 334 Life of Burns 10 BY MABY W. SHELLEY 5 Frankenstein 10 BY PEBCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 549 Complrto Poetical Works 30 BY S. SHELLEY 191 The Nautz Family 20 BY 640 648 653 657 662 ()71 674 677 680 684 687 690 693 ('97 702 703 705 WILLIAM OILMOBF SIMMS The Partisan SO Mcllichampe ?M The Yeinassee oO Katherine Walton 30 Southward Ho ! 30 The Scout 30 The Wigwam and Cabin 30 Vasconselos SO Confession 30 Woodcraft 30 Richard Hurdis 30 Guy Rivers 30 Border Beagles 80 The Forayers 30 Charlemont .'"0 Eutaw 30 Buuuchampe 80 h I ■I 10 lovell's library. B32 126 6ia 024 780 425 694 110 434 65 848 449 896 401 461 173 BT J. H. BHOBTHOUSE Sir Percival 10 BT J. P. SIMPSON Haunted Hearts 10 BY EDITH 8IMC0X Men, Women, and Lcvera 20 BY A. P. SINNETT Karma 20 . BY HAWLEY SMAKT Bad to Beat 10 BY SAMUEL SMILES Self-Help 26 BY A. SMITH A Summer in Skye 20 BY OOLDWIN SMITH False Hopes 15 Life of Cowper 10 BY J. GBEGOBY SMITH Selma 16 BY S. M. SMUCEEB Life of Webster, 2 Parts, eacli 15 BY F. SPIELHAGEN Quisiana 20 BY LESLIE STEPHEN LifeofPope 10 Life of Johnson 10 BY STABEWEATHEB AND WILSON Socialism 10 BY STEPNIAE Underground Russia 20 BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 767 Kidnapped 20 768 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hvde 10 769 Prince Otto 10 770 The Dynamiter 20 793 New Arabian Nights 20 819 Trensnre Island 20 921 The Merry Men 20 BY HESBA STBETTON 729 In Prison and Out 20 BY EUGENE SUE Mysteries of Paris, 2 Part*, each . .20 The Wandering Jew, 2 Parts, each .20 BY DEAN SWIFT Gulliver's Travels 2C BY CHAS. ALGERNON SWIN- BURNE. 412 Poems 20 BY J. A. SYMONDS 361 Life of Shelley IQ BY H. A. TAINE 442 Taine's English Literature 40 776 68 BT NIKOLAI O.TCHEBHmS^ COSKT 1017 AVltal Question S» BT LORD TENNTSON 446 Poems 40 BT W. M. THACKEBAT 141 Henry Esmond 20 143 DeniaDuval 20 148 Catherine 10 156 Lovel, the Widower 10 164 Barry Lyndon 20 172 Vanity Fair 30 193 History of Pendennis, 2 Parts, each..20 211 The Newcomes, 2 Parts, each 20 220 Book of Snobs 10 229 Paris Sketches 20 2;i5 Adventuresof Philip, 2 Parts, each 15 238 The Virginians, 2 Parts, each 20 252 Critical Reviews, etc 10 256 Eastern Sketches IQ 262 Fatal Boots, etc 10 264 The Four Georges 10 280 Fitzboodle Papers, etc 10 283 Roundabout Papers 20 285 A Legend of the Rhine, etc 10 286 Cox's Diary, etc 10 292 Irish Sketches, etc 20 29(i Men's Wives 10 300 Novels by Eminent Hands 10 303 Character Sketches, etc 10 304 Christmas Books 20 S06 Ballads 15 o07 Yellowplush Papers 10 :^09 Sketches and Travels in London. . , .10 313 English Humorists IS 316 Great Hoggarty Diamond IC 320 The Rose and the Ring 10 BT JJDGE D. P. THOMPSON 21 The Green Mountain Boys SO BT THEODORE TILTON 94 Tempest Tossed , Part 1 26 94 Tempest Tohsed, Part II 20 BT ANTHONT TROLLOPE 133 Mr. Scarborough's Family, 2 Parts, each 15 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope,20 Life of Thackeray 10 An Old Man's Love 15 BT F. A. TUPPEB 895 Moonshine 20 BT J. VAN LENNEP 468 The Count of Talavera 251 3ii7 .ao / BT VIBGIL 540 Poems 26 BT JULES VEBNE 34 800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 35 The Cryptogram 10 154 Tour of the World in Eighty Days. . 20 166 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ... 20 185 The Mysterious Island, 3 Parts, each.15 BT QUEEN VICTOBIA 355 More Leaves from a Life in the High- lands U 11 \" t LOVELL 8 LIBRARY. BT L. B. WAIFOBD. 1068 Mr. Smith .20 J056 The History of a Week .10 ' 1057 The Baby's Grandmother 20 1058 Troublesome Daughter 20 1059 Cousins 20 BT OEOBGE WALKEB 13 The Three Spaniards 20 BT FBOF. A. W. WABD 413 Life of Chaucer 10 BY F. WABDEN 757 Doris' Fortune 10 900 At tlie World's Mercy 10 981 The House on the Marsh 20 988 DeWee.. 20 983 A Prince of Darkness 20 BY SAMTTEL WABBEN 935 Ten Thousand a Year, Part i 20 » •• " Part IT 20 " " " Part III ....20 BT DESHLEB WELCH 427 Life of Orover Cleveland 20 BT E. WEBITEB 614 At a High Price 20 734 Vineta 20 BT MBS. HENBT WOOD 54 East Lynne 20 902 The Mystery 20 BT MBS. WHITCHEB 194 Widow Bedott Papers 20 BT J. G. WHITTIEB 450 Poems 20 BT VIOLET WHYTE 963 Her Johnnie 20 BT W. M. WILLIAMS 80 Science in Short Chapters 20 BT K. P. WIL1I8 852 Poems ... ai BY C. P. WINGATE 880 Twilight Club Tracts 20 BY EDMUND YATES 723 Running the Gauntlet 20 724 Broken to Harness 20 BY CHABLOTTE M. YQNGE 858 A Moiiem Telemachus yOl 809 Love and Life 2(f BY EBKEST A. YOUNG | 666 Bnrbara's Rival 20 691 A Woman's Honor 20 MISCELLANEOUS 26 Life of Washington 20 87 Paul and Virginia 10 47 Baron Munchausen 10 68 The Vendetta, by Kalzac 20 6fi Margaret and her Bridesmaids 20 72 Queen of the County . .20 98 The Gypsy Queen 20 118 A New Lease of Life 20 169 Beyond the Sunrise 20 181 Whist, or Bumhlepuppy ? . . . ' 10 360 Modern Christianity a Civilized Heathenism 15 2fi5 Plutarch's Lives, 5 Parts, each 20 291 Famous Fuimv Fellows 20 323 Life of Paul Jones 20 33-i Evory-Day Cook-Book 20 340 Clayton's Rangers 20 385 Swiss Family Robinson 20 386 Childhood of the World 10 397 Arabian Nights' Entertainments 25 402 How He Reached the White House. 25 433 Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 434 Typhaines Abbey 25 483 Tlie Child Hunters 15 857 A Wilful Young Wonr.pn 20 966 The Story of Our Mess 20 9()7 The Three Bummers '^Q 1019 Socur Louise 20 t Any number in the above list ean generally be obtained from all booksellers and hewsdealers, or when it cannot be bo obtained, will be sent, free by mail, on receipt of 2)rice by the publishers. JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, t». O. Box 1998. 14 AND IG Vesby St., New Yobk, la ^\ LOVELL'S LIBRARY. X^A.TEH'-r ISSXJES. 9sa At the WorkVa Mercy, F. Warden. 10 9'jl Tbe House on the Marsh, by F. Warden 20 982 Djldr^e. l)y F. Warden 20 933 A Prince of Darkness, by Warden.. 20 93t 'Twixt Smile aiid Tear, by Clay... 20 9S.5 Lady Dlaiia'a Pi.'dc, l)y B. M. Clay.. 20 9i0 Hclle oi Lynn, by Lerlha M. Clay... 20 937 lloinaiRC of a Poor Young I^Iau, by O:;iavo FouUlet 10 9S9 Marjoriu'ri Fate, by Bertha M.Clay. 20 939 a>vebt Cytubeliuo, by B. M. Clay . . .20 990 Open s esaiiic, by Florence Marryat 20 991 Mad Dumarosti, by F. Marryat 20 99ii Camlllo, by Alexandre Dumas, Jr.. 10 993 The Child Wife, by A. M. Howard. 10 994 Lucy Croflon, by BIis. Oliphant... .10 995 Which ShaU It Be 'i Ijy Mrs. Alex- ander ... 20 986 The Queen of Hearts, by Collins. . .20 937 The Golden Hope, by W. C. Ku8BeU.20 998 Beau Tancrede, by Alex. Dumas 20 999 FlRhting the Air, by F. Marryat. .20 1000 Frederick the liroat and his Court, by Louisa Miihlbach 80 1001 Frankley, by Henri Greville 20 1002 To Call Her Mine, by W. Be8ant.20 1003 The Haunted Hotel, by W. Collins. 10 1004 This Man's Wife, by G. M. Fenn. .20 1005 Next of Kin Wanted, by M. Beth- am-Edwards 20 1006 A Daugliter of the People, by Georgiana M. Craik 20 1007 Redeemed by Love, by B. M. Clay.20 1008 Marrying and Giving in Marriage, by Mrs. Molesworth 10 1009 The Great Hesyer, by F. Barrctt..20 1010 Mrs. Gregory, by Agnes Ray 20 1011 Pirates of the Prairies, by Aimard.lO 1012 The Squire's Darling, by Clay. . . 10 1013 The Mystery of Colde Fell, by Clay.20 1014 The Daughter of an Empress, by Louisa Miihlbach 30 1015 Pemberton, by Henry Peterson... 30 1016 Taras Bulha, by Nikolai V. Gogol.. 20 1017 A Vital Question, by Nikolai G. Tchcrnufshevsky . 30 1018 The Condemned Door, by F. du Bolsgobey 20 1019 Soeur Louise (Louise de Bruneval)20 1020 Allan Qiiatermain, by Haggard. . .20 1021 The Trapper's Daughter, by Gustave Almard lo 1022 Gooil-Bye, Sweetheart, by Rhoda Broughton 20 1023 Red as a Rose is She, by Rhoda B^oughton 20 1024 Comeih up as a Flower, by Rhoda Broughton ' 20 1025 Not WlEely, But Too Well, by Rhoda Broughton 20 102G Nancy, by Rhoda Brongbton 20 1U27 Joan, by Rhoda Bioughton 2a 1028 A Near Relation, by Coleridge 20 1029 Breuda Yorke, l.y Mary Cecil Hay 10 1030 On Her Wedding Morn, by Clay. . 10 1031 The Shattered Idol, by B. M. Clay. 10 1032 The Tiger Slayer, by G. Almard.. 10 1033 Letty Leigh, by Bertha M. Clay. ..10 1034 Mary Auerley.by R. D. Blackmore.20 1035 Alice Lorraine, by Blackmore... 20 1036 Chrlstowell, by.R. D. Blackmore .20 1037 Cli^ra Vaughaa, by Blackmore.... 20 1038 Cripps the Carrier, by Blackmore.20 1039 Remarkable History of Sir Thomas Upmore, by R. D. Blackmore... 20 1040 Erema; or. My Fathei's-Sln, by R. D. Blackmore 20 1041 The Mystery of the Holly Tree, by Bertha M. Clay 10 1042 The Earl's Error, by B. M. Clay. . 10 1043 Arnold's Promise, by B. M. Clay..lO 1044 Forging the Fetler3,by Alexander.lO 1045 The Trappers o"f Arkansas, 'by Gustave Aimard 10 1046 CJornin' thro' the Rye, by Mather8.20 1047 Sam's Sweetheart, by Mat hers.... 20 1U48 Story of a Sin. by H. B. Mathers..20 1049 Cherry Rlne, by H. B. Mathers . .20 1050 My Lady Green Sleeves, by Math- ers 20 1051 An Unnatural Bondage, by Clay. .10 1052 Border Rlttea, by Gustave Aimard.lO 1053 Gold Elsie, by E. Marlitt 20 1054 (ioethe and Schiller, by Miihlbach. 30 1055 Mr. Smith, by L. B. Walford. . . .20 1056 The History of a Week.by Walford. 10 1057 The Baby's Graudmothei', by Wal- ford 20 1058 Troublesome Daughters, by Wal- ford ... 20 1059 Cousins, by L. F.. Walford 2 J loco The Bag of Dlamond-i, by Fenn '/O 1061 Red Spider, by S. Baring-Gould to 1062 Dick's Wandering, by J. SturRls..2J 1063 The Freebooters, by G. Almard. . .30 1064 The Duke's Secret, by B. M. Clay '.iO 1065 A Modern Circe, by "rhe DuchcoB 20 1066 An American Journey, by Avfehrf;.uo 1067 Gsofifrey Moncton, by S. Moodie..30 1068 Flora Lyndsav, by S. Moodie.... 20 10C9 The White Scalper, by G. Aimai u 10 1070 Confessions of an English Orium Eater, by Thomas de Qnlucey.. 20 1071 Guide of the Desert, by Aimaid..l3 From Aavance Sheets: 1072 " The Duchess," by The Duchcs3.20 1073 Scheherazade, by F. Warden 'io 1074 Roughing it in the Bush, by Su- sanna Moodie.. 20 1075 The Insurgent Chief, by Almard. . 10 Dealers can always obtain complete Catalogues with imprint, for free distribu- tion, on application to the Publishers, JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 14 & 16 Vcsoy Street, New York. on... .20 a 20 age 20 cUHay 10 yr (jiay.io M.Clay. 10 Liiuard..lO .Clay... 10 ,ckmore,20 nore ... 20 jkuiore .20 more.. . 20 ickniore.20 ■ Thomas ;moie...2(» I. bin, by 20 Tree, by 10 yi. Clay.. 10 M. Clay..iO lexander.lO msas, 'by 10 'MatUer8.20 at hers.... 20 Matliera..20 latliers . .20 by Matb- 20 liyClay-.lO e Aimard.lO ,t 20 rtiiUlbacb.sa Iford. . . .20 Y Waif or d. 10 ;r,byWal- 20 '8, by Wal- , 20 3rd' '^^ by Fenn '/O iig-Gould to J. Sturpia.SO Ainiard...lO B. M. Clay '.iO tcDucheoS 20 by Avfellnu-iJO S.'Moodie..ao VIoodie.... 20 G. Aiuiai u 10 rlisb Oi'iuiu (Jniucey.. 20 y Almai"d..l3 eets : le DacUe33.20 harden 'M usU. by Su- by Alinard. . 10 r free disiribu- Mew York. LIFE IN THE BACKWOODS, A SEQUEL TO ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH. By SUSANNA MOODIE, AUTHOR OF "LIFE IN THE CLEARINGS," "FLORA LYNDSAY," ''QEOPFKEl MONCTON," ETC., ETC. I Bketch from Natiire, and the pictiire's true ; Whato'er the subject, whether grave or gay. Painful experience in a distam land Made it mine own. -ti-'i NEW YOEK: JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 14 AND 16 Vesey Street. \ 5 "\ \ .'; -i -^ 1^ i o o CAKAy^Ari* fE3 2 S 1951 131900 THOW'9 MlNTWa AND BOOKBINDINQ COMfANV, NCW YORK. t o o ]sr T E :n^ r s . •♦-• — PAOK. CHAPTER I.— A Journey to the Woods— Corduroy Roads— No Ghosts in Canada 5 CHAPTER II.— The Wilderness and our Indian Friends— The House on Fire— No Papoose ; the Mother all alone 80 CHAPTER III.— Running the Fallow— A Wall of Fire—" But God can save us yet." 80 CHAPTER IV.— Our Logging Bee—" Och I my ould granny taught me " —Signal Mercies 58 CHAPTER v.— A Trip to Stony Lak&-A Feast in an Outhouse— The Squatter's Log Hut ..,. .. . 72 CHAPTER VI.— Disappointed Hopes— Milk, Bread and Potatoes our only Fare- The Deer Hunt 87 CHAPTER VII.— The Little Stumpy Man— Hiding from the Sheriff- An ill>natured Volunteer 101 CHAPTER VIII.— The Fire—" Oh, dear Mamma, do save Papa's Flnte " — " No time to be clane I" 123 CHAPTER IX.— The Outbreak— Moodie joins the Volunteers— " Scrib- blin and Scrabblin' when you should be in bed ' ' 143 CHAPTER X.— The Whirlwind— Two Miles of Trees Levelled to the Ground— Sick Children 161 CHAPTER XI,— The Walk to Dummer— Honest, Faithful Jenny— A sad History— Tried and Pound most Faithful 169 CHAPTER XII.— A Change in our Prospects— In a Canoe— Nearing the Rapids— Dandelion Coffee 197 CHAPTER Xni.— The Magic Spell— " The Sleighs are Come 1 "—Leav- ing the Bush— End of Life in the Backwoods 209 4' li m / 11^1 ^ I 9r ^"x /-•: C^- / / Lu /,/ iV^^' a l^itcJ- 1 '-uC dt ^0 1 // Im Ji J. '/r \yr-\,Q.. O^n \ I llU ^'■t y r/: I- ^ /- jCl>r{Xi>-o J LIFE IN THE BM:KW00DS, A SEQUEL TO EOUGIimG IT IN THE BUSH. ►-•♦- CHAPTEll I. A JOURNEY TO THE WOODS. Tis well for us poor deuizens ur earth That Oud coucuals the future from our gaze ; Or Hope, the blessed wutchor on Life's towor. Would fold hur wings, and on the dreary waste Close the bright ov^ thnt thrnush tim murky clouds Of blank Despair aiili seea the glorious sun. i TT was a bright, frosty morning when I bade adieu to tne -*- fiirm, the birthplace of my little Agnes, who, nestled beneath my cloak, was sweetly sleeping on my knee, unconscious of the long journey before us into the wilderness. The sun had not as yet risen. Anxious to get to our place of destination before dark, we started as early as we could. Our own fine team had been sold the day before for forty pounds; and one of our neighbours, a Mr. D , was to convey us and our household goods to Douro for the sum of twenty dollars. During the week he had made several jour- neys, with furniture and stores ; and all that now remained was to be conveyed to the woods in two large lumber-sleighs, one driven by himself, the other by a younger brother. 6 ROUOniNG IT IN THE JiUSH. y ! It was not without regret tlmt I left Melsetter, for so my husband had called the plaee, after his father's estate in Ork- ney, it was a beautiful, [>icturesque spot; and, in spite of the evil neighbourhood, I had learned to love it ; indeed, it was much against my wish that it was sold. I had a great dislike to removing, which involves a necessary loss, and is apt to give to tht'. emigrant roving and unsettled habits. But all regrets were now useless; and happily unconscious of the life of toil and anxiety that awaited us in those dreadful woods, I tried my best to be cheerful, and to regard the future with a hopeful eye. Our driver was a shrewd, clever man, for his opportunities. He took charge of the living cargo, which consisted of my hus- band, our maid-servant, the two little children, and myself — besides a large hamper, full of poultry — a dog, and a cat. The lordly sultan of the imprisoned seraglio thought fit to conduct himself in a very eccentric manner, for at every barn- yard we happened to pass, he clapped his wings, and crowed so long and loud that it afforded great amusement to the whole party, and doubtless was very edifying to the poor hens, who lay huddled together as mute as mice. " lliat 'ere rooster thinks he's on the top of the heap," said our driver, laughing. " 1 guess he's not used to travelling in a close conveyance. Listen! How all the crowers in the neighbourhood give him back a note of defiance ! But he knows that he's safe enough at the bottom of the basket." The day was so bright for the time of year (the first week in February), that we suffered no inconvenience from the cold. Little Katie was enchanted with the jingling of the sleigh-bells, and, nestled among the packages, kept singing or talking to the horses in her baby lingo. Trifling as these little inci- dents were, before we had proceeded ten miles on our long •oumey, they revived my drooping spirits, and I began to II A JOURNEY TO THE WOODS, feel a lively interest in the scenes thiough which we wer6 passing. The first twenty miles of the way was over a hilly and well-cleared country; and as in winter the deep snow fills up the inequalities, and makes all roads alike, wo glided as swifl- ly and steadily along as if they had been the best highways in the world. Anon, the clearings began to diminiah, and tall woods arose on either side of the path ; their solemn aspect, and the deep silence that brooded over their vast solitudes, inspiring the mind with a strange awe. Not a breath of wind stirred the leafless branches, whose huge shadows, reflected upon the dazzling white covering of snow, lay so perfectly still, that it seemed as if Nature had suspended her opera- tions, that life and motion had ceased, and that she was sleep- ing in her winding-sheet, upon the bier of death. " I guess you will find the woods pretty lonesome," said Dur driver, whose thoughts had been evidently employed on the same subject as our own. " We were once in the woods, but emigration has stepped ahead of us, and made our'n a cleared part of the country. When I was a boy, all this country, for thirty miles on every side of us, was bush land. As to Peterborough, the place was unknown ; not a settler had ever passed through the great swamp, and some of them believed that it was the end of the world." " What swamp is that ?" asked I. " Oh, the great Cavan swamp. We are just two miles from it; and I tell you the horses wiM need a good rest, and ourselves a good dinner, by the time we are through it. Ah ! Mrs. Moodie, if ever you travel that way in summer, you will know something about corduroy roads. I was 'most jolted to death last fall ; I thought it would have been no bad notion to have insured my teeth before I left C , I really expected that they would have been shook out u A 8 ROUGHING IT LY THE BUS 11. til of my head before we had done manoeuvririg over the big logs." " How will my crockery stand it in the next sleigh ?" quoth I. " If the road is such as you describe, I am afraid that I shall not bring a whole plate to Douro." " Oh ! the snow is a great leveller — it makes all rough places smooth. But with regard to this swamp, I have some- thing to tell you. About ten years ago, no one had ever seen the other side of it ; and if pigs or cattle strayed away into it, they fell a prey to the wolves and bears, and were seldom recovered. " An old Scotch emigrant, who had located himself on this side of it, so often lost his beauts that he determined during the summer season to try and explore the place, and see if there were any end to it. So he takes an axe on liis shoul- der, and a bag of provisions for the week, not forgetting a flask of whiskey, and off he starts all alone, and tells his wife that if he never returned, she and little Jock must try and carry on the farm without him ; but he was determined to see the end of the swamp, even if it led to the other world. He fell upon a fresh cattle-track, which he followed all that day ; and tow£.rds night he found himself in the heart of a tangled wilderness of bushes, and himself half eaten vp with mos(|uitoes and black-flies. He was more than tempted to give in, and return home by the first glimpse of light. " The Scotch are a tough people ; they are not easily daunted — a few difficulties only seem to make them more eager to get on; and he felt ashamed the next moment, as he told me, of giving up. So he finds out a large, thick cedar-tree for his bed, climbs up, and coiling himself among the branches like a bear, he was soon fast asleep. "The next morning, by daylight, he continued his journey, not forgetting to blaze with his axe the trees to the right and \ A JOURNEY TO TEE WOODS. left as he went along. The ground was so spongy and wet that at every step he plunged up to his knees in wate^, but he seemed no nearer the end of the swamp than he had been the day before. He saw several deer, a raccoon, and a ground- hog, during his walk, but was unmolested by bears or wolves. Having passed through several creeks, and killed a great many snakes, he felt so weary towards the second day that he de- termined to go home the next morning. But just as he began to think his search was fruitless, he observed that the cedars and tamaracks which had obstructed his path became less numerous, and were succeeded by bass and soft maple. The ground, also, became less moist, and he was soon ascending a rising slope, covered with oak and beech, which shaded land of the very best quality. The old man was now fiilly con- vinced that he had cleared the great swamp ; and that, instead of leading to the other worlds it had conducted him to a country that would yield the very best returns for cultiva- tion. His favourable report led to the formation of the road that we are about to cross, and to the settlement of Peter- borough, which is one of the most promising new settlements in this district, and is surrounded by a splendid back country." We were descending a very steep hill, and encountered an ox-sleigh, which was crawling slowly up it in a contrary direc- tion. Three people were seated at the bottom of the vehicle upon straw, which made a cheap substitute for buffalo robes. Perched, as we were, upon the crown of the height, we looked completely down into the sleigh, and during the whole course of my life I never saw three uglier mortals collected into such a narrosv space. The man was blear-eyed, with a hare-lip, through which protruded two dreadful yellow teeth which resembled the tusKs of a boar. Tlie woman was long- faced, high cheek-boned, red-haired, and freckled all over like a toad. The boy resembled his hideous mother, but with the VOL. II 1* (I: ' }■ iO ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH. t. ilj! addition of a villainous obliquity of vision which rendered him the most disgustuig object in this singular trio. As we passed them, our driver gave a knowing nod tc my husband, directing, at the same time, the most quizzical glance towards the strangers, as he exclaimed, " We are in luck, sir ! I think that 'ere sleigh may be called Beauty's egg- basket !" We made ourselves very merry at the poor people's ex- pense, and Mr. D , with his odd stories and Yankeefied expressions, amused the tedium of our progress through the great swamp, which in summer pr nits for several miles one uniform bridge of rough and unequal logs, all laid loosely across huge sleepers, so that they jumped up and down, when pressed by the wheels, like the keys of a piano. The rough motion ai^d jolting occasioned by this collision is so distress- ing that it never fails to entail upon the traveller sore bones and an aching head for the rest of the day. The path i.^ so narrow over these logs that two wagons cannot pass without great difficulty, which is rendered more dangerous by the deep natural ditches on either side of the bridge, formed by broad creeks that flow out of the swamp, and often terminate in mud-holes of very ominous dimensions, llie snow, however, hid from us all the ugly features of the road, and Mr. D steered us through it in perfect safety, and landed us at the door of a little log house which crowned the steep hill on the other side of the swamp, and which he dignified with the name of a tavern. It was now two o'clock. We had been on the road since seven ; and men, women, and children were all ready for the good dinner that Mr. D had promised us at this splendid house of entertainment, where we were destined to stay for two hours, to refresh ourselves and rest the horses. " Well, Mrs. J , what have you got for c»ur dinner?'' '■ A JOURNEY TO THE WOODS. 11 \ -jr said the driver, after he had seen to the accommodation of his teams. " Fritters and pork, sir. Nothing else to be had in the woods. Thank God, we have enough of that!" D shrugged up his shoulders, and looked at us. " We've plenty of that same at home. But hunger's good sauce. Come, be spry, widow, and see about it, for I am very hungry." I inquired for a private room for myself and the children, | but there were no private rooms in the house. The apart-; ment we occupied was like the cobbler's stall in the old song,' and I was obliged to attend upon them in public. | " You have much to learn, ma'am, if you are going to the woods," said Mrs. J . " To unlearn, you mean," said Mr. D . " To tell you the truth, Mrs. Moodie, ladies and gentlemen have no business in the woods. Eddication spoils man or woman for that loca- tion. So, widow (turning to our hostess), you are not tired of living alone yet ?" " No, sir ; I have no wish for a second husband. I had enough of the first. I like to have my own way — to lie down mistress, and get up master." " You don't like to be put out of your old way," returned he, with a mischievous glance. She coloured very red ; but it might be the heat of the fire over which she was frying the pork for our dinner. I was very hungry, but I felt no appetite for the dish she was preparing for us. It proved salt, hard, and unsa- voury. D pronounced it very bad, and the whiskey still worse, with which he washed it down. I asked for a cup of tea and a slice of bread. But Ihey were out of tea, and the hop-rising had failed, and there wai ' !^i Hi ipi I 12 ROUOUINQ IT IN THE BUSH. no bread in the house. For tliis disguscing mtal we paid at the rate of a quarter of a dollar a-head. I was glad when, the horses being again put to, we escaped from the rank odour of the fned pork, and were once more in the fresh air. " Well, mister ; did not you grudge your money for that bad meat ?" said D , when we were once more seated in the sleigh. " But in these parts, the worse the fare the higher the charge." " I would not have cared," said I, " if I could have got a cup of tea." " Tea ! it's poor trash. I never could drink tea in my life. But I like coffee, when 'tis boiled till it's quite black. But coffee is not good without plenty of trimmings." " What do you mean by trimmings ?" I He laughed. " Good sugar, and sweet cream. Coffee is not worth drinking without trimmings." , Often in after years have I recalled the coffee trimmings, I when endeavouring to drink the vile stuff which goes by the I name of coffee in the houses of entertainment in the country. We had now passed through the narrow strip of clearing which surrounded the tavern, and again entered upon the woods. It was near sunset, and we were rapidly d escend ing Pa steep hill, when oii e o^Jhe traces that held our sleigh sud- denly broke . D pulled up in order to repair the damage. His brother's team was close behind, and our unexpected stand-still brought the horses upon us before J. D could stop them. I received so violent a blow from the head of one of them, just ir. the back of the neck, that for a few minutes I was stunned and insensible. When I recovered, 1 was supported in the arms of my husband, over whose knees I was leaning, and U was rubbing mj hands and temples with snow. A JOURNEY TO THE WOODS. 13 " There, Mr. Moodie, she's coming to. I thought she wa.? killed. I have seen a man before now killed by a blow from a horse's head in the like mam er." As soon as we could, we resumed our places in the sleigh ; but all enjoyment of our journey, had it been otherwise possible, was gone. When we reached Peterborough, Moodie wished us tc remain at the inn all night, as we had still eleven miles of our joiirn;;y to perform, and that through a blazed forest-road, little travelled, and very much impeded by fallen trees and other obstacles ; but D — - was anxious to get back as soon as possible to his own home, and he urged us very pathetically to proceed. The moon arose during our stay at the inn, and gleamed upon the straggling frame houses which then formed the now populous and thriving towTi of Peterborough. We crossed the wild, rushing, beautiful Otonabee river by a rude bridge, and soon found ourselves journeying over the plains or level heights beyond the village, which were thinly wooded with picturesque groups of oak and pine, and very much resembled a gentleman's park at home. Far below, to our right (for we wrere upon the Smith-town side) we heard the rushing of the river, whose rapid waters never receive curb from the iron chain of winter. Even while the rocky banks are coated with ioo, and the frost-king suspends from every twig and branch the most beautiful and fantastic crystals, the black waters rush foaming along, a thick steam rising constantly above the rapids, as from a boiling pot. The shores vibrate and tremble beneath the force of the impetuous flood, as it whirls round cedar-crowned islands ahd opposing rocks, and hurries on to {)our its tribute into the Rice Lake, to swell the calm, majestic grandeur of the Trent, till its waters are lost in the beautiful bay of Quinte, and finally merged in the blue ocean of Ontario. •li 1 If ■ t 1 4 ! 1 ii r iii 14 ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH. The most renowned of our English rivers dwindle into lit tie muddy rills when compared with the sublimity of the Canadian waters. No language can adequately express the solemn grandeur of her lake and river scenery ; the glorious islands that float, like visions from fairy land, upon the bosom of these azure mirrors of her cloudless skies. No dreary breadth of marshes, covered with flags, hide from our gaze the expanse of heaven-tinted waters ; no foul mud-banks spread their unwholesome exhalations around. The rocky shores are crowned with the cedar, the birch, the alder, and soft maple, that dip their long tresses in the pure stream ; from every crevice in the limestone the harebell and Canadian rose wave their graceful blossoms. The fiercest droughts of summer may diminish the volume and power of these romantic streams, but it never leaves their rocky channels bare, nor checks the mournful music of their dancing waves. Through the openings in the forest, we now and then caught the silver gleam of the river tumbling on in moonlight splendour, while the hoarse chiding of the wind in the lofty pines above us gave a fitting response to the melan- choly cadence of the waters. ITie children had Tallen asleep. A deep silence pervaded the party. Night was above us with her mysterious stars. The ancient forest stretched around us on every side, and a foreboding sa'"''ness sunk upon my heart. Memory was busy with the events of many years. I retraced step by step the pilgrimage of my past life^ until arriving at that passage in its sombre history, I gazed through tears upon the singularly savage scene around me, and secretly marvelled, "What brought me here f " Providence," was the answer which the soul gave. " Not for your own welfare, perhaps, but for the welfare of your children, the unerring hand of the great Father has led you \ i A JOURNEY TO THE WOODS. 15 here. You form a connecting link in the destinies of many It is impossible for any human creature to live for himself alone. It may be your lot to suffer, but others will reap a benefit from your trials. Look up with confidence to Heaven, and the sun of hope will yet shed a cheering beam thi'ougb the forbidden depths of this tangled wilderness." The road became so bad that Mr. D was obliged to dismount, and lead his horses through the more intricate pas &ages. The animals themselves, weary with their long jour- ney and heavy load, proceeded at foot-fall. The moon, too, had deserted us, and the only light wo had to guide us through the dim arches of the forest was from the snow and the stars, which now peered down upon us through the leafless branches of the trees, with uncommon brilliancy. " It will be past midnight before we reach your brother's clearing," (where we expected to spend the night,) said D . " I wish, Mr. Moodie, we had followed your advice, and staid at Peterborough. How fares it with you, Mrs. Moodie, and the young ones ? It is growing very cold." We were now in the heart of a dark cedar swamp, and my mind was haunted with visions of wolves and bears ; but be- yond the long, wild howl of a solitary wolf, no other sound awoke the sepulchral silence of that dismal looking wood. " What a gloomy spot," said I to my husband. " In the old country, superstition would people it with ghosts." " Ghosts ! There are no ghosts in Canada !" said Mr. D . " The country is too new for ghosts. No Canadian is afeard of ghosts. It is only in old countries, like your'n, that are full of sin and wickedness, that people believe in such nonsense. No human habitation has ever been erected in this wood through which you are passing. Until a very few years ago, few vrhite persons had ever passed through it ; and the Red Man would not pitch his tent in such a place as this !!: A, !| 16 ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH. : fj 1 M , Now, ghost'-, as I understand the word, are the spirits of bad men, that are not allowed by Providence to rest in their graves, but, for a punishment, are made to haunt the spots where their worst deeds were committed. I don't believe in all this ; but, supposing it to be true, bad men must have died here before their spirits could haunt the place. Now, it is more than probable that no person ever ended his days in this forest, so th^t it would be folly to think of seeing his ghost." This theory of Mr. D 's had the merit of originality, and it is not improbable that the utter disb elief in suj gernatu- ral appf^arances, which is common t o most nativ e-born Cana- dians, is the result of tlie same very reasonable mode of arguing. The unpeopled wastes of Canada must present the same aspect to the new settler that the world did to our first parents after their expulsion from the garden of Eden ; all the sin which could defile the spot, or haunt it with the association of departed evil, is concentrated in their own persons. Bad spirits cannot be supposed to linger near a place where crime has never been committed. The belief in ghosts, so prevalent in old countries, must first have had its foundation in the con- sciousness of guilt. After clearing this low, swampy portion of tfte wood, with much difficulty, and the frequent application of the axe, to cut away the fallen timber that impeded our pre gress, our ears were assailed by a low, roaring, pushing soand, as of the falling of waters. " That is Herriot's Falls," said our guide. " We are within two miles of our destination." Oh, welcome sound ! But those two miles appeared more lengthy than the whole journey. Th'ok clouds, that threatened a snow-storm, had blotted out the stars, and we continued to grope our way through a narrow, rocky path, upon the edge I A JOURNEY TO THE WOODS. 11 of the river, in almost total darkness. 1 now felt the chillness of the midnight hour, and the fatigue of the long joui ney, with double force, and envied the servant and children, who had been sleeping ever since we left Peterborough. We now descended the steep bank, and prepared to cross the rapids. Dark as it was, I looked with a feeling of dread upon the foaming waters as they tumbled over their bed of rocks, their white crests flashing, life-like, amid the darkness of the night. " This is an ugly bridge over such a dangerous place," said D , as he stood up m the sleigh and urged his tired team across the miserable, insecure log-bridge, where darkness and death raged below, and one false step of his jaded horses would have plunged us into both. I must confess 1 drew a freer breath when the bridge was crossed, and D congrat. ulated us on our safe arrival in Douro. We now continued our journey along the left bank of the river, but when in sight of Mr. S 's clearing, a large pine- tree, which had newly fallen across the narrow path, brought the teams to a stand-still. The mighty trunk which had lately formed one of the stately pillars in the sylvan temple of Na- ture, was of too large dimensions to chop in two with axes ; and after half-an-hour's labour, which to me, poor, cold, weary wight ! seemed an age, the males of the party abandoned the task in despair. To go round it was impossible ; its roots were concealed in an impenetrable wall of cedar-jungle on the right-hand side of thb road, and its huge branches hung over the precipitous bank of the rivei. We must try and make the horses jump over it," said D . " We may get an upset, but there is no help for it ; we must either make the experiment, or stay here all night, and I am too cold and hungry for that — so here goes." He urged his horses to leap the log ; restraining their ardour for a moment as the sleigh rested on the top of the formidable rl * i -f"' ^ ^ ROUOIIING IT IN THE BUSH barrier, but so nicely balanced, that the difference of a straw would almost have overturned t'.io heavily-laden vehicle and its hel[>less inmates. We, however, cleared it in safety. He now stopped, and gave directions to his brother to follow the same plan that he had adopted ; but whether the young man had less coolness, or the horses» m his team were more diffi- cult to manage, I cannot tell ; the sleigh, as it hung poised upon the top of the log, was overturned with a loud crash, and all my household goods and chattels were scattered over the road. Alas, for my crockery and stone china! scarcely one article remained unbroken. " Never fret about the china," said Moodie ; " thank God, the num and the horses are uninjured." I should have felt more thankful had che crocks been spared too ; for, like most of my sex, 1 had a tender regard for china, and I knew that no fresh supply cotild be obtained in this part of the world. Leaving his brother to collect the scattered fragments, D proceeded on his journey. We left the road, and were winding our "way over a steep hill, covered with heaps of brush and fallen timber, and as we reached the top, a light gleamed cheerily from the windows of a log house, and the next moment we were at my brother's door. I thought my journey was at an end; but here 1 was doomed to fresh disappomtment. His wife was nbsent on a visit to her friends, and it had been arranged that we were to to stay with my sister, Mrs. T , and her husband. With all this I was unacquainted ; and I was about to quit the sleigh and seek the warmth of the fire when I was told that 1 had yet further to go. Its cheerful glow was to ahed no warmth on me, and, tired as I was, I actually buried my face and wept upon the neck of a hound which Moodie had given to Mr. S f and which sprang up upon the sleigh to lick my face A JOURNEY TO THE WOODS. 19 a straw icle and >y. He How the ing man :)re diffi- T poised .d crash, red over scarcely ink God, jks been jr regard obtained ollect the ey. We ;teep lull, nd as we ! windows brother's and hands. This was my first halt in that weary wilderness, where I endured so many l)itter years of toll and sorrow. My brother-in-liiw and his faniily iiad retired to rest, Viiit tiiey in- stantly rose to receive tiic way-worn travellers; and I never enjoyed more heartily a warm welcome after a lon«5 day of bitcjise fatigue, than I did th»t. niaht. of my first sojourn in the backwooci' yA<^^ U AU/ /^i^^^AxXto • cIj, ."zU^^t^ / ere 1 was sent on a TQ were to id. With the sleigh that 1 had lo warmth 3 and wept ren to Mr. 3k my face u i! SI' I ' i u 20 HO UU I UNO IT h\ TUK HUSH. ill •' I ♦'tl Al 'J Pjii II, MBI WILDERNESS, AND OUR INDIAN FRinitBf^. THE dtnids of the preceding night, instead of dissolving into snow, brought on a rapid thaw. A thaw in the middle of winter is the most disagreeable change that win be imagined. After several weeks of clear, bright, bracing, frosty weather, with a serene atmosphere and cloudless sky, y (.)U awake one morning surprised at tht change in the temperature ; and, upon looking out of the window, behold the woods obscured by a murky haze — not so dense as an English November fog, but more l)lack and lowering — and the heavens shrouded hi a uniform covering of leaden-coloured clouds, deepening into a livid indigo at the edge of the horizon. The snow, no longer hard and glittering, has become soft and spongy, and the foot slips into a wet and insidiously-yielding mass at every step. From the roof pours down a continuous stream of water, and the branches of the trees collecting the moisture of the reek- ing atmosphere, shower it upon the earth from every dripping twig. The cheerless and uncomfortable aspect of things with- out never fails to produce a corresponding effect upon the minds of those within, and casts such a damp upon the spirits that it ai>poars to destroy ibr a time all sense of enjoyment. Many persons (and myself among the number) are made aware of the approach of a thunder-storm by an intense pain and weight about the head ; and T have heard numbere of rill': \Vll.i>h'iiNI>.> AND OUR INDIAN t'lilKSDS. X] f dissolving haw in the that ciiu he achvg, frosty jr, you awake srature •, aiid, )ds obscurod )vember fo^, hroudcd iii a )ening into a w, no longer , and the foot it every step, of water, and B of the reek- ivery dripping 3f things with- feet upon the pon the spirits of enjoyment. >er) are made in intense pain d luimberB of Camulians ooinftlain that a thaw always made tlicin feel biliou» \ y^ nnd heavy, and greatly depressed their animal spirits. I hud a gi'eat desire to visit our now location, but when I loolted out upon the cheerless waste, I gave up the idea, and contented myself with hoping for a better day on the morrow; but many morrows came and went before a frost again hard oned the road sufnciently for me to make tiu' attempt. The prospect from the windows of my sister's leg hut was not very prepossessing. The small lake in ffont, which formed such a pretty object in summer, now looked like an extensive Held covered with snow, hemmed in from tlio rest of the world by a dark belt of sombre pine-woods. The clearing round the house was very smtill, and only just reclaimed iVom the wilderness, and the greater part of it covered with j>iles of brushwood, to be burned the first dry days of spring. The charred and blackened stnm[)s on the few acres that had been cleared during the preceding year were every thing but pic- turesque; and I concludiul, as I turned, disgusted, from the pnjspect befon.' me, that there was very little beauty to be found in the backwoods. But I came to this decision during a Canadian thaw, be it remembered, when one is wont to view every object with jaundiced eyes. Moodie had only been .able to secure sixty-six acres of his government grant upon the Upper Kutchawanook Luke, which, being interpreted, means in English, tlie "Lake of the Water- falls," a very poetical meaning, which mosl Indian names have, lie had, however, secured a clergy reserve of two hundred acres adjoining ; and he afterwards purchased a fine lot, which likewise formed a part of the same block, one hundred acres, for £150.* This was an enormously high price for wild land •, •*■ After n lapse of fifteen years, wo have been glad to sell those iota of. land, after cc>n»iderable cloarings had been tuado upon them, for k:'..s tlisj they orijiriually cost UB. I' I I ''Bi - i : : I] Illl 1 32 ROUOHINO IT IN THE BUW. but the prospect of opening the Trent and Otouabee for tbe na\ngation of steamboats and other small craft, -svas at itiat period a favourite speculation, and its practicability, and tne great advantages to be derived from it, were so widely be. lieved, as to raise the value of the wild lands along these re- mote waters to an enormous price; and settlers in the vi- cinity were eager to secure lots, at any sacrifice, along their shores. Our government grant was upon the lake shore, and Moo- die had chosen for the site of his log house a bank that slope/ gradually from the edge of the water, until it attained to the dignity of a hill. Along the top of this ridge, the forest-road ran, and midway down the hill, our humble home, already nearly conipletea, stood, surrounded by the eternal forest. A few trees had been cleared in its immediate vicinity, just suffi- cient to allow the workmen to proceed, and to prevent the fall of any tree injuring the building, or the danger of its taking fire during the process of burning the flillow. A neighbour had undertaken to build this rude dwelliriii by contract, and was to have it ready for us by the first week ai the new year. The want of boards to make the divisions m the apartments alone hindered him from fulfilling his con- tract. These had lately been procured, and the house was to be ready for our reception in the course of a week. Our trunks and baggage had already been conveyed by Mr. D hither ; and in spite of my sister's kindness and hospitality, I longed to find myself once more settled in a home of my own. The day after our arrival, I was agreeably surprised by a visit from Monaghan, whom Moodie had once more taken into his service. Thp. poor fellow was delighted that his nurse- child, as he always called little Katie, had not forgotten him, but evinced the most lively satisfaction at the sight of her dark friend. ^^ THE WILDHRNESS, AM> OUR 1ND^A.N FRIENDS. 23 Early every morning, Moodie went off to the house ; and the first fine day, my sister undertook to escort me through the wood, to inspect it. The proposal was joyfiilly accepted ; and although I felt rather timid when I found myself with only my female companion in the vast forest, I kept my fears to myself, lest I should be laughed at. This foolish dread of en- countering wild beasts in the woods, I never could wholly shake olF, even after becoming a constant resident in their gloomy depths, and accustomed to follow the forest-path, alone, or attended with little children, daily. The cracking of an old bough, or the hooting of the owl, was enough to fill me with alarm, and try my strength in a precipitate flight. Often have I stopped and reproached myself for want of faith in the goodness of Providence, and repeated the text, " The wicked are afraid when no man pursueth : but the righteous are as bold as a lion," as if to shame myself into courage. But it would not do ; I could not overcome the weakness of the flesh. If 1 had one of my infimts wit)i me, the wish to pro- tect the child from any danger which might beset my path gave me for a time a fictitious courage ; but it was like love fighting with despair. It was in vain that my husband assured me that no person had ever been attacked by wild animals in the woods, that a child might traverse them even at night in safety ; wliilst I knew that \vild animals existed in those woods, I could not believe him, and my fears on this head rather increased than diminished. The snow had been so greatly decreased by the late thaw, that it had been converted into a coating of ice, which afforded a dangerous and slippery footing. My sister, who had resided for nearly twelve months in the woods, was pro- vided for her walk with Iiid'ian 'inoccasins, which rendered her quite independent ; but I stumbled at every step. The I i ,-J ■" 1 ■ ■ ! i .'t '. * ■. » : I iiMJiM iijiH! 24 ROUGHING IT LV the UUSII. sun shone brightly, the air was dear and invigorating, and, in spite of the treacherous ground and my foolish fears, I greatlj enjoyed my first walk in the woods. Naturally of a cheer- ful, hopeful disposition, my sister was enthusiastic in her ad- miration of the woods. She drew such a lively picture of the charms of a summer residence in the forest that I began to feel greatly interested in her descriptions, and to rejoice that we too were to be her near neighbours and dwellers in the woods ; and this circumstance not a little reconciled me to the change. Hoping that my husband would derive an income equal to the one he had parted with from the investment of the price of his commission in the steamboat stock, I felt no dread of want. Our legacy of £700 had afforded us means to purchase land, build our house, and give out a large portion of land to be cleared, and, with a considerable sum of money still in hand, our prospects for the future were in no way discour- aging. When we reached the top of the ridge chat overlooked oir cot, my sister stopped, and pointed out a large dwelling among the trees. " There, S ," she said, " is your home. When that black cedar swamp is cleared away, that now hides the lake from us, you will have a very pretty view." My conversation with her had quite altered the aspect of the country, and predisposed me to view things in the most favour- able light. I found Moodie and Monaghan employed in piling up heaps of bush near the house, which they intended to burn off by hand previous to firing the rest of the fallow, to prevent any risk to the building from fire. The house was made of cedar logs, and presented a superior air of com- fort to most dwellings of the same kind. The dimensions were thirty-six feet in length, and thirty-two in breadth, which gave us a nice parlour, a kitchen, and two small bedrooms, THE WILDERNESS, AND OUR INDIAN FRIENDS. 25 which were divided by plank partitions. Pantry or storeroom there was none ; some rough shelves in the kitchen, and a deal cupboard In a corner of the parlour, being the extent of our accommodations in that way. Our servant, Mary Tate, was busy scrubbing out the par- lour and bedroom ; but the kitchen, and the sleeping-room off it, were still knee-deep in chips, and filled with the carpen- ter's bench and tools, and all our luggage. Such as it was, it was a palace when compared to Old Satan's log hut, or the miserable cabin we had wintered in during the severe winter of 1833, and I regarded it with complacency as my future home. While we were standing outside the building, conversing with my husband, a young gentleman, of the name of Morgan, who had lately purchased land in that vicinity, weni into the kitchen to light his pipe at the stove, and, 'vith true backwood ai'olcssness, let the hot cinder fall among the dry chips that strewed the floor. A few minutes after, the whole mass was in a blaze, and it was not without great difficulty that Moodie and Mr. R succeeded in pulling out the fire. Thus were we nearly deprived of our home before we had taken up our abode in it. The indifference to the danger of fire in a country where most of the dwellings are composed of inflammable materials, 18 truly astonishing. Accustomed to see enormous fires bla- zing on every hearth-stone, and to sleep in front of these fires, his bedding often riddled with holes made by hot particles of wood flying out during the night, and igniting beneath his very nose, the sturdy backwoodsman never dreads an enemy in the element that he is used to regard as his best friend. Yet what awful accidents, what ruinous calamities arise, out of this criminal negligence, both to himself and others! A few days after this adventure, we bade adieu to mv si* VOL. 11. 3 ii) u. 26 ROUGHING IT IN THE Ub\iH. ^ ■^■. ter, and took possession of our new dwelling and (^on'menccd '' a life in the woods." The first spring we spent in comparative ease and idleness. Our cows had been left upon our old place during the winter. The ground had to be cleared before it could recei\e a crop ] of any kind, and I had little to do but to wandtir by the lake shore, or among the woods, and amuse myself These were the halcyon days of the bush. My husband had pur- chased a very light cedar canoe, to which he attached a keel ind a sail ; and most of our leisure hours, directly the snows melted, were spent upon the water. These fishing and shooting excursions were delightful. The pure beauty of the Canadian water, the sombre but august grandeur of the vast forest that hemmed us in on every side ind shut us out from the rest of the world, soon cast a magic npell upon our spirits, and we began to feel •charmed with the freedom and solitude around us. Every object was new to us. We felt as if we were the first discoverers of every beautiful flower and stately tree that attracted our attention, and we gave names to fantastic rocks and fairy isles, and raised imaginary houses and bridges on every picturesque spot which we floated past during our aquatic excursions. I learned the use of the paddle, and became quite a proficient in the gentle craft. It was not long before we received visits from the Indians, a people whose beauty, talents, and good qualities have been somewhat overrated, and invested with a poetical interest which they scarcely deserve. Their honesty and love of truth are the finest traits in characters otherwise dark and un- lovely. But these are two God-like attributes, and fiom them spring all that is generous and ennobling about them, Tlicrc never was a people more sensible of kindness, or more grateful for any little act of benevolence exercised to ■fiAn^yuj . Ali^/yiU^ 9 /^^eK/iNKSS, AST OUli /X/f/AiV y/i/KXns. 33 '■^ t'-''^ .J :■■■:>> The shaggy monster came on. Slic remained motionless, her eyes steadily fixed upon her enemy, and as his luige arms | closed around her, she slowly drove the knife into his heart. The bear uttered a hideous cry, and sank dead at her feet. When the hidian returned, he found the courageous wonum taking the skin from the carcass of the formidable brute. The wolf they hold in great contempt, and scarcely deign to consider him as an enemy. Peter Nogan assured me that he never was near enough to one in his life to shoot it ; that, except in largo companies, and when greatly pressed by hun- ger, they rarely attack men. They hold the lynx, or wolver- ine, in much dread, as they often spring from trees upon their prey, fastening upon the throat with their sharp teeth and claws, from which a person in the dark could scarcely free himself without first receiving a dangerous wound. Th(; cry of this animal is very terrifying, resembling the shrieks of a human creature in mortal agony. My husband was anxious to collect some of the nativ<^ • Indian airs, as they all sing well, and havft^a Ju q ^ {ly for mi i sic, but all his efforts proved abortive. "John," he said to / young Nogan (who played very creditably on the flute, and had just concluded the popular air of " Sweet Home"'), " can- not you play me one of your own songs "?" " Yes, — but no good." " Leave me to be the judge of that. Cannot you give me a war-song V " Yes, — but no good," with an ominous shake of the head. " A hunting-song ?" "No fit for white man." — with an air of contempt. — "No good, no good !" "Do, John, sing us a 'ove-song," said I, laughing, "if you have such a thing in your language." " Oh ! much love-song — ^very. much — bad — bad — no good VOL. Tl. 2* ; ■ I I I ai iiOUGJUM.i IT /.\ nil-: BUtiH. for I'liiistiaii man. Indian son^ no gorxl tor white (.'urs.' This was v«T}' tantalizing, as their sonj^s sounded very swretl / from tlu! lips of tlu'ir squaws, and I had a jfrtNil desiro and curiosity to get sonio of them i-endi'riMl into J'lnj^li^h. To my hu^luind they ifavo the name of " the mr.sieian," but I have forjj^otten tiie hidian word. It sif^'uified the maluT * of sweet sounds. Tliey listened with intense delight to tho notes of his flute, maintained a breathless silence during thu \ performance ; their dai'k eyes flashing in fierce light at a m; ' tial strain, or softening with the jdaintive and tender. The allection of hidian j)arents to their children, and the def- erence which they pay to the agi'd, is a beautiful and touching trait in their character. One extremely cold, wintry day, as I was huddled with my little ones over the stove, the door softly unclosed, and tho moccasincd foot of an Indian crossed the floor. I raised mv head, for I was too much accustomed to their sudden appear- ance at any hour to feel alarmed, and perceived a tall woman standing silently and respectfully before me, wrajipcd in a large blanket. The moment she caught my eye she dropped the folds of her covering from around her, and laid at my feet the attenuated figure of a boy, about twelve years of age, who was in the last stage of consumption. "Papouse die," she said, mournfully, clasping her hands against her breast, and looking down upon the suffering lad with the most heartfelt expression of maternal love, while large tears trickled down her dark face. "Moodie's squ.aw save papouse — poor Indian woman much glau." Her child was beyond all human aid. I looked anxiously upon him, and knew, by the pinched-iip features and purple hue of his wasted cheek, that he had not many hours to live. I could only answer with tears her agonizing appeal to my skill. «l TflK U'IL/)h/i\h>IS, AM) UUh' LXltUy FliIEND.<. ais M Ipea! "UVy and siivo liim ! All die hiit him." (She held up fire of her lingers.) " Brought him all the way trom Mutla Lake* upon my back, for white scjuaw to cure." r "I cannot cure him, my poor friend. IIo is in God's care; in a few hours he will be with ITini." 1'he child was seized witli u driadlul fit of coughing, which 1 expected every moment would terminate his frail existence. I gave him a tea-s[)oonful of curi ant-jelly, which he took with avidity, but could not retain a moment on his stomach. "Papouse die," murmured the poor woman; "alone — , alone! No papouse; the mother all alone." She ])egan re-adjusting tlie poor sufferer in her blanket. I got her some food, and begg(!d her to stay and rest herself; but she was too much distressed to eat, and too restless to re- main. She said little, but her face expressed the keenest anguish; she took up her mournful load, pressed for a moment his wasted, burning hand in hers, and left the room. My heart followed her a long way on her melancholy journey. Think what this woman's love must have been for that dying son, when she had carried a lad of his age six miles, through the deep snow, upon her back, on such .'i day, in the hope of my being able to do him some good. Poor heart- broken mother ! 1 learned from Joe Muskrat's squaw some days after that the boy died a few minutes after Ii^iizabcth Iron, his mother, got home. They never forget any little act of kindness. One cold night, late in the fall, my hospitality was demanded by six squaws, and puzzled I was how to accommodate them all. I at last determined to give them the use of the parlour floor during the night. Among these women there was one veiy old, whose hair was as white as snow. She was the only gT%j- * Mud Lake, or Lake Shemong^ in Indinn. il 36 liOUGinNG IT IX THE BUSH. i 1 haired Indian 1 ever saw, and on that account I regarded hei with peculiar interest. I knev that she was the wife of a chief, by the scarlet embroidered leggings, which only the wives and daughters of chiefs are allowed to wear. The old squaw had a very pleasing countenance, but I tried in vain to draw her into conversation. She evidently did not understand me ; and the Muskrat squaw, and Betty Ck)w, were laughing at mj attempts to draw her out. I administered supper to them with my own hands, and after I had satisfied their wants, (wh''ch is no very easy task, for they have great appetites,) I told our servant to bring in several spare mattresses and blankets for their use. " Now mind, Jenny, and give the old squaw the best bed," I said ; " the others are young and can put up with a little inconvenience." The old Indian glanced at me with her keen, bright eye ; but I had no idea that she comprehended what I said. Sonie weeks after this, as I was sweeping over my parlour floor, a slight tap drew me to the door. On opening it I perceived the old squaw, who immediately slipped into my hand a set of beautifully-embroidered bark trays, fitting one within the other, anc! exhibiting the very best sample of the porcupine- . quill work. While I stood wondering what this might mean, the good old creature tell upon my neck, and kissing me, ex- claimed, " You remember old squaw — make her comfortable ! Old squaw no forget you. Keep them for her sake," and be- fore I could detain her she ran down the hill with a swiftness which seemed to bid defiance to years. I never saw this in- teresting Indian again, and I concluded that she died during the winter, for she must have been of a great age. A friend was staving with us, who wished much to obtain B likeness of Old Peter. I promi'^ed to try and make a sketch of the old mar the next time he paid us a visit. That very atlernoon he brought us some ducks in exchange fo? ■^HSBSH ■I THE WILDERNESS, AND OUR INLIAN FRIENDS. 37 Dork, and Moodie asked him to stay and take a glass of whis. key with hiin and his Iriend Mr. K . The old man had arrayed himself in a new Llanket-coat, bound witli red, and the seams all decorated with the same gay material. His leggings and moccasins were new, and elaborately fringed; and, to cap the climax of the whole, he had a blue cloth coni- cal cap upon his head, ornamented with a deer's tail dyed blue, and several cock's feathers. He was evidently very much taken up with the magnificence of his own appearance> for he often glanced at himself in a small shaving-glass that hung opposite, with a look of grave satisfaction. Sitting apart that I might not attract his observation, I got a tolera- bly faithful likeness of the old man, which, after slightly col- ouring, to show more plainly his Indian finery, I quietly handed over to Mr. K . Sly as I thought myself, my occupation and the object of it had not escaped the keen eye of the old man. lie rose, came behind Mr. K- chair, I was No and regarded the picture with a most aHectionate eye. afraid that he would be angry at the liberty I had taker such thing ! lie was as pleased as Punch. " That Peter V he grunted. " Give me — put up in wig- owgh !" and he rubbed his wam- -make dog too ! Owgh ! hands together, and chuckled with delight. Islv. K had some difliculty in coaxing the picture from the old chief; so pleased was he with this rude representation of himself. He pointed to every particular article of his dress, and dwelt with peculiar glee on the cap and blue deer's tail. A few days after this, I was painting a beautiful little snow-bird, that our man had shot out of a large flock that alighted near the door. I was so intent upon my task, to which I was putting the finishing strokes, that 1 did not ob- serve the stealthy e ntrance (for they all walk lik e cats) of a (Stern-looking red man, till a slender, dark hand was extended i 88 HOUGHING IT IN Tllf. BU.SII. I 4 m over my paper to grasp the dead bird from which I was copy, ing, and which as rapidly transferred it to the side of the painted one, accompanying the act with the deep guttural note of approbation, the unnmsical, savage " Owgh." My guest then seated himself with the utmost gravity in a rocking-chair, directly fronting me, and made the modest de- mand that I should paint a likeness of him, after the following quaint fashion : " Moodie's squaw know much — make Peter Nogan toder day on ])apare — make Jacob to-day — Jacob young — great hunter — give much duck — venison — to squaw." Althctiigii 1 felt rather afraid of my fierce-looking visitor, 1 could scarcely keep my gravity ; there was such an air of pompous i^elf-approbjition about the Indian, such a sublime look of conceit in his grave vanity. " Hoodie's squaw cannot do every thing ; she cannot paint young nier.," said 1, rising, and putting away my drawing materials, upon which he kept his eye intently fixed, w-ith a hungry, avaricious expression. 1 thought it best to place the coveted objects beyond his reach. After sitting for some time, and watching all my movements, he withdrew, with a sullen, disappointed air. This man was handsome, but his ex- pression was vile. Though he often came to the house, I never could rectncile myself to his countenance. Late one very dark, stormy night, three Indians begged to be allowed to sleep by the kitchen stove. The maid was frightened out of her wits at the sight of these strangers, who were M^jhavvks from the Indian woods upon the Bay of Quinte, and they brought along with them a horse and cutter. The night was so stormy, that, after consulting our man — Jacob Faithful, as we usually called him — I consented to grant their petition, although they were quite strangers, and taller and fieroor-lookiiiff than our friends the Missasaguas. !■■ THE WILDERNESS, AND OUR INDIAN FRIENDS. 3?1 \ 1 was putting my children to bed, when the girl came rushing in, out of breath. " The Lord preserve us, madam, if one of these wild men has not pulled off* liis trowsers, and is a-sitting mending them behind the stove ! and what shall 1 do?" " Do ? — why, stay with me, and leave the poor fellow tc finish his work." The simple girl had never once thought of this plan of pacifying her outraged sense of propriety. Their sense of hearing is so acute that they can distinguish soiuids at an mcretlible distance, which cannot be detected by a li^uropean at all. I myself witnessed a singular exemplifi- cation of this fact. It was mid-winter ; the Indians had pitched their tent, or wigwam, as usual, in our swamp. All the males were absent on a hunting expedition up the coun- try, and had left two women behind to take care of the camp and its contents, Mrs. Tom Nogan and her children, and Su- san Moore, a young girl of fifteen, and the on ly triily beau ti- ful squaw I evei' saw. There was something interesting about this girl's history, as well as her appearance. Her father had been drowned during a sudden hurricane, which swamped his canoe on Stony Lake ; and the mother, who witnessed the accident from the shore, and was near her confinement with this child, boldly swam out to his assistance. She reached the spot where he sank, and even succeeded in recovering the body ; but it was too late ; the man was dead. The soul of an Indian that has been drowned is reckoned accursed, and he is never permitted to join his tribe on the happy hunting-grounds, but his spirit haunts the lake or river m which he lost his life. Ilis body is buried on some lonely island, which the Indians never pass without leaving a small portion of food, tobacco, or ammunition, to supply his wants ; hut he is never interred with the rest of his people. His chil 40 ROUGHING IT AV THE BUSH. i tm ' iili -»■ V ■pM dren are considered unlucky, and few willingly unite them selves to the fenitales of the family, lest a portion of the father's curse should be visited on them. The orphan Indian girl generally kept aloof from the rest, and seemed so lonely and companionless, that she soon attracted my attention and sympathy, and a hearty feeling of good- will sprang up between us. Her features were small and regular, her face oval, and her large, dark, loving eyes were full of tenderness and sensibility, but as bright and shy as those of the deer. A rich vermilion glow burnt upon her olive cheek and lips, and set off the dazzling whiteness of her ., even an(i pearly teeth. She was small of stature, with deli- cate little hands and feet, and her figure was elastic and grace- ful. She was a beautiful child of nature, and her Indian name I signified " the voice of angry waters." Poor girl, she had been a child of grief and tears from her birth ! Her mother was a Mohawk, from whom she, in all probability, derived her superior personal attractions ; for they are very far before the Missasaguas in this respect. My friend and neighbour, Emilia S , the wife of a naval officer, who lived about a mile distant from me, through the bush, had come to spend the day with me ; and hearing that the Indians were in the swamp, and the men away, we deter- mined to take a few trifles to the camj), in the way of presents, and spend an hour in chatting with the squaws. What a beautiful moonlight night it was, as light as day ! — the great forest sleeping tranquilly beneath the cloudless heavens — not a sound to disturb the deep repose of r.ature but the whispering of the breeze, which, during the most profound calm, creeps through the lofty pine tops. We bounded down the steop bank to the lake shore. Life is a blessing, a previous boon indeed, in such an hour, and we felt happy in the mere cor«ciousncss of existence — the glorious privilege of pourinff THE WILDERNE.i:S, AND OUIi INDIAN FRIENDS. 4i out the silent adoration of the heart to the Great Father ir, his universal temple. On entering the wigwam, which stood within a few yards of the clearing, in the middle of a thick group of cedars, we found Mrs. Tom alone with her elvish children, seated before the great fire that burned in the centre of the camp ; she was busy boiling some bark in an iron spider. The little boys, m red flannel shirts, which were their only covering, were tor- menting a puppy, which seemed to take their pinching and pommelling in good part, for it neither attempted to bark nor to bite, but like the eels in the story, submitted to the inflic- tion because it was used to it. Mrs. Tom greeted us with a grin of pleasure, and motioned us to sit down upon a buflalo skin, which, with a courtesy so natural to the Indiuxis, she had placed near her for our accommodation. " You are all alone," said I, glancing round the camp. " Ye'es ; Indian away hunting — Upper Lakes. Come home with much deer." " And Susan, where is she V " By and by," (meaning that she was coming). " Gone to fetch water — ice thick — chop with axe — take long time." As she ceased speaking, the old blanket that formed the door of the tent was withdrawn, and the girl, bearing two pails of water, stood in the open space, in the white moon- light. The glow of the fire streamed upon her dark, floating locks, danced in the black, glistening eye, and gave a deeper blush to the olive cheek ! She would have made a beautiful picture ; Sir Joshua Reynolds would have rejoiced in such a model — so simply graceful and unaffected, the very beau idSal of savage life and unadorned nature. A smile of recognition passed between us. She put down her burden beside Mrs. Tom, and noiselessly glided to her seat. We had scarcely exchanged a few words with our favour --- iti ! 42 HOUGHING IT IN THE BUSH. % "^O ^ ^^» cC^ ite, when the old squaw, placuig her hand against her ear, ex. claimed, " Whist ! whist !" "What is it?" cried Emilia and I, starting to our feet. " Is there any danger 'V "A deer — a deer — in bush!" whispered the squaw, seizing & rifle that stood in a corner. '•' I hear sticks crack — a great way off. Stay here !" A great way off the animal must have been, for though Emilia and I listened at the open door, an advantage which the squaw did not enjoy, we could not hear the least sound : all seemed still as death. The squaw whistled to an old hoimd, and went out. " Did you hear any thing, Susan 1" She smiled, and nodded. " Listen ; the dog has found the track." The next moment the discharge of a rifle, and the deep baying of the dog, woke up the sleeping echoes of the w^oods ; and the girl started off to help the old squaw to bring in the game that she had shot. The Indians are great imitators, and possess a nice tact in adopting the customs and manners of those with whom they associate. An Indian is Nature's gentleman — ne ver f amiliar, coarse, or vulgar. ifTieTal^e a meal with you, he waits to see how you make use of the implements on the table, and the manner in which you eat, w^hich he imitates with a grave decorum, as if he had been accustomed to the same usage-s from childhood. lie never attempts to help himself, or de- mand more food, but waits patiently until you perceive what he requires. I was perfectly astonished at this innate polite- ness, for it seems natural to all the Indians with whom I have had any dealings. There was one Id Indian, who belonged to a distant set- tlement, and only sdsited our lakes occasionally on hunting THK WILD Eli XESS, i.XD OUR IXlH.iX FRIENDS. 43 )f.drties. He was a strange, eccentric, merry old fellow, with a skin like red mahogany, and a wiry, sinewy frame, that looked as if it could bid defiance to every change of tempera- turc. Old Snow-storm, for such was his significant name, was rather too fond of the whiskey-bottle, and when he had taken a drop too much, he became an unmanageable wild beast. He had a great fancy for my husband, and never visited the other Indians without extending the same fiivour to us. C ice upon a time, he broke the nipple of his gun ; and Moodi - re- paired the injury for him by fixing a new one in its place, which little kindness quite won the heart of the old man, and he never came to see us without bringing an offering of fish, ducks, partridges, or venison, to show his gratitude. One warm September day, he made his appearance bare- headed, as usual, and carrying in his hand a great checked bundle. " Fond of grapes V said he, putting the said bundle into my hands. " Fine grapes — brought them from island, for my friend's squaw and papouses." Glad of the donation, which I considered quite a prize, I hastened into the kitchen to untie the grapes and put them into a dish. But imagine my disappointment, when I found them wrapped up in a soiled shin, only recently taken from the back of the owner. I called Moodie, and begged him to return Snow-storm his garment, and to thank him for the grapes. The mischievous creature was highly diverted with the circumstance, and laughed immoderately. " Snow-storm," said he, " Mrs. Moodie and the children fire obliged to you for your kindness in bringing them th^a grapes ; but how came you to tie them up in a dirty shirt 1" " Dirty !" cried the old man, astonished that we should object to the fruit on that score. " It ought to be clean ; it V''\ 1- 14 ROUQHINO 11 IN THE BUSH. has been washed often enough. Owgh ! You see, Moodie,** iie continued, " I have no hat — never wear hat — want no shade to my eyes — love the sun — see all around me — up and down — much better widout hat. Could not put grapes in hat — blanket-coat too large, crush fruit, juice run out. I had notmg but lay shirt, so I takes off shirt, and brings grape safe over the water on my back. Papouse no care for dirty shirt j their lee-tel bellies have no eyes^ In spite of this eloquent harangue, I could not bring my. self to use the grapes, ripe and tempting as they looked, or give them to the children. Mr. W and his wife happen- ing to step in at that moment, fell into such an ccstacy at the sight of the grapes, that, as they were perfectly unacquainted with the circumstance of the shirt, I very generovsly gratified their wishes by presenting them with the contents of the large dish ; and they never ate a bit less sweet for the novel mode in which they were conveyed to me ! The Indians, under their quiet exterior, possess a deal of humour. They have significant names for every thing, and a nickname for every one, and some of the latter are laughably appropriate. A fat, pompous, ostentatious settler in our neighbourhood they called Muckakee, " the bull-frog." An- other, rather a fine yoiing man, but with a very red face, they named Segoskee^ " the rising sun." Mr. Wood, who had a farm above ours, was a remarkably slender young man, and to him they gave the appellation of Metis, " thin stick." A woman, that occasionally worked for me, had a disagree- able squint ; she was known in Indian by the name of Sacha- bo, " cross-eye." A gentlema \ with a very large nose was Choojas, " big, or ugly nose." My little Addle, who was a fair, lovely creature, they viewed with great approbation, and called Anoonk, " a star ;" while the rosy Katie was Nogesi- gook, " the northern lights." As to me, 1 was Nonocosiqni, a i! \ THE WILDKUNEi^S, AM) uUR INDIAN FRIENDS, 45 t t ^3 ■~-f ^ liuiuming-bird ;" a ridiculous name for a tall woman, but it nfui reference to the delight I took in painting birds. My tVicnd, Emilia, was " blue cloud ;" my little Donald, " frozen face ;" young C , " the red-headed woodpecker," from the colour of his hair ; my brother, Chippewa^ and " the bald- headed eagle." He was an especial favourite among them. The Indians are often made a prey of and cheated b y the / u nprincipled, sgjjlsjcs, who think it no crime to overreach a/ red skin. One anecdote will fully illustrate this fact. AJ young squaw, who was near becoming a mother, stopped at a Smith-town settler's house co rest herself. The woman of the house, who was Irish, was peeling for dinner some large white turnips, which her husband had grown in theii garden. The Indian had never seen a turnip before, and the appearance of the firm, white, juicy root gave her such a keen (graving to taste it that she very earnestly begged for a small piece to eat. She had purchased at Peterborough a large stone-china bowl, of a very handsome pattern, (or, perhaps, got it at the store in exchange for a basket,) the worth of which might be half-a-dollnr. It' the poor squaw longed for the turnip, the valve of which could scarcely reach a copper, the covetous European had fixed as longing a glance upon the china bowl, and she was determined to gratify her avaricious desire and obtain it on the most easy terms. She told the squaw, with some disdain, that her man did not gi'ow turnips to give away to " Injuns," but she would sell her one. The squaw offered her four coppers, all the change she had about her. This the woman refused with contempt. She then proffered a basket ; but that was not sufficient ; nothing would satisfy her but the bowl. The Indian demurred ; but oppo. sition had only increased her craving for the turnip in a ten- fold degree ; and, {if>er a short mental struggle, in which the animal propcnsit*' overcame the warnings of prudence, tho 1 ■:1 !l \ V 46 ROUGHING IT IN THE Utrsil. squaw gave up the bow], and received in return one turnip i The daughter of this woman told me this anecdote of het mother as a very clever thing. What ideas some peopi* have of moral justice ! I have said before that the Indian never forgets a kindness. We had a thousand proofs of this, when, overtaken by misfor- tune, and withering beneath the iron grasp of poverty, we could scarcely obtain bread for ourselves and our little ones ; then it was that the truth of the Eastern proverb was brought home to our hearts, and the goodness of God fully manifested towards us, " Cast thy bread upon the waters, and thou shalt find it after many days." During better times we had treated these poor savages with kindness and liberality, and when dearer friends looked coldly upon us they never forsook us. For many a good meal I have been indebted to them, when I had nothing to give in return, when the pantry was empty, and " the hearth-stone growing cold," as they term the want of provisions to cook at it. And their delicacy in conferring these favours was not the least admirable part of their con- duct. John Nogan, who was much attached to us, would bring a fine bunch of ducks, and drop them at my feet " for the papouse," or leave a large muskinoiige on the sill of the door, or place a quarter of venison just within it, and slip away without saying a word, thinking that receiving a present from a poor Indian might hurt our feelings, and he would spare us the mortification of returning thanks. When an Indian loses one of his children, he must keep a strict fas* for three days, abstaining from food of any kind. A hunter, of the name of Young, told me a curious story of their rigid observance of this strange rite, " They had a chief," he said, " a few years ago, whom they called ' Handsome Jack' — whether in derision, I cannot tell, for he was one of the ugliest Indians I ever saw. The scarlet THE WlLDKJiXESS^ AND OUlt INDIAN FHIENVS. n fever g(jt into tho camp — a terrible disease in this country, and doubly terrible to those poor creatures who duii't know how to treat it. TTls eldest daughter died. The chief had fasted two days when I met him in the bush. I did not laiow •.vhat had happened, ])ut I opened my wallet, for I was on a hunting expedition, and ollered him some bread and dried venison. lie looked at me reproachfully. •' ' Do white men eat bread the first night their papouse is laid in the earth V " I then knew the cause of his depression, and left him." On the night of the second day of his fast another child died of the fever. lie had now to accomplish three mor«i days without tasting food. It was too much even for an hidian. On the evening of the fourth, he was so pressed by ravenous hunger, that he stole into the woods, caught a bull- frog, and devoured it alive. He imagined himself alone, but one of his j)e(jple, suspecting his intention, had followed him, unperceived, to the bush. The act he had just committed was a liidcous crime in their eyes, and in a few minutes the camp was in an uproar. The chief fled for ])rotection to Young's house. When the hunter demanded ti:e cause of his alarm, he gave for answer, " Tliere are plenty of flies at my house. To avoid their stings I came to you." It required all the eloquence of Mr. Young, who enjoyed much popularity among them, to reconcile the rebellious tribe to their chief. They are very skilful in their treatment of wounds, and many diseases. Their knowledge of the medicinal (jualities of their plants and herbs is v^ry great. They make excellent poultices from the bark of the bass and the sIlppL-ry-elm. They use several native plants in their dyeing of baskets and porcupine quills. The inner bark of the swamp-alder, simply boiled in witer, makes a "tK-'autifiil red. From the root of the 1 i 1 1 r ! #j I 48 liOUGllimt IT IN TIIK RUSH. black })riony they obtain a fiiio salvo for soivs, and extract a rich yellow dye. The iniuT hark of tho root of the sumach, roasted, and redneed to po\V(l<;r, is a ^(nA remedy fur tiio ague ; a tea-spoonful given l)etween the hot and cold lit. They scrape the fine white powder from the large fungus that grows upon the bark of the [)inc into whiskey, and take it for violent paiuo in the stomach. The taste of this powder strongly re- minded mo of qu. nine. I have read much of the excellence of Indian cookery, but I never could bring myself to taste cny thing prepared in their dirty wigwams. 1 remember being highly amused in Nvalch- ing the prertaration (>f a mess, whicb might have been called the Indian hotch-potch. Jt consisiud of a strange mixture of fish, flesh, and flowl, all IxM'ed t/ -ether :!• the same vessel. Ducks, partridges, muskinonge, venison, and muskrats, fjrmcd a part of this delectable compound. These ^vere litm-ally smothered in oniOi^s, potatoes, and turnij)s, which they had procured from me. They very hospitably oftered me a dish- ful of the odious mixtu>'e, which the odour of the muskrats rendered every thing but savoury; but I declined, simply .^ta- ^ ting that I was not hungry. My little boy tasted it, but (quickly :^ *^^ left the camp to conceal the efl'ect it produced upon him. _.*^ ^"^ Their method of broiling fish, however, is excellent. They; ^ ^ take a fish, just fresh out ./ the water, cut out the entrails,x^ i and, wi<^hout removing the rcales, wash it clean, dry it in a vJ clotli, or in grease, and cover it all over with clear hot ashes. When the flesh will part from the bore, they draw it oul of the ashes, strip ofl' the skin, and it is fit for the table of the* moHtt fastidious epicure. The deplorable want of cha stity that exists among the Indian women of this tribe seems Tt) have been more the result of their intercourse with the settlers in the country than from any previous disposition to this vice The iealousj TIIK \Vl[.!>FJii\ESS, AM) OlIH INDIAX FlilEWDS. ver remember. No rain fell upon the earth for many weeks, till nature drooped and withered beneath one bright blaze of simlight ; and the agu e and fev er in the woods, and the cholei-a in the large towns and cities, spread death and sicknesS' tfrn^ugmTie country. Moodie had made during the winter a large clearing of twenty acres around the house. The progress of the workmen had been watched bv me with the keenest interest. Everv tree that reached the ground opened a wic'er gap in the dark wood, giving us a broader ray of light, and a clearer glimpse of the blue sky. But when the dark cedar swamp fronting the house fell beneath the strokes of the axe, and wo got a first view of the lake, mv jov was complete: a new and beautiful BURNING THE FALLOW. 51 object was now constantly before me, which gave me the greatest pleasure. By night and day, in sunshine or in storm, water is always the most sublime feature in a landscape, and no view can be truly grand in which it is wanting. From a child, it always had the most powerful cflect upon my mind, from the great ocean rolling in majesty, to the tinkling forest rill, hidden by the flowers and rushes along its banks. Half the solitude of my forest home vanished when the lake un- veiled its bright face to the blue heavens, and I saw sun and moon and stars and waving trees reflected there. I would sit for hours at the window as the shades of evening deepened round me, watching the massy foliage of the forests pictured in the waters, till fancy transported me back to England, and the songs of birds and the lowing of cattle were sounding in my ears. It was long, very long, before I could discipline my mind to learn and practise all the menial employments which are necessary in a good settler's wife. The total absence of trees about the doors in all new set- tlements had always puzzled me, in a coimtry where the in- tense heat of summer seemf? to demand all the shade that can be procured. My husband had left several beautiful rock-elms (the most picturesque tree in the country) near our dwelling, but, alas ! the first high gale prostrated all my fine trees, and left our log cottage entirely exposed to the fierce rays of the sun. The confusion of an uncleared fallow spread around us on every side. Huge trunks of trees and piles of brush gave a littered and uncomfortable appearance to the locality, and as the weather had been very dry for some | weeks, I heard my husband daily talking with his choppers as to the expediency of firing the fallow. They still urged him k) wait a little longer, until he could get a good breeze to »-arry the fire well through the brush. Business called him suddenly to Toronto, but he left ft I ,t 52 ROUGHING IT IN THE BITSH. I H strict charge with old Thomas and his sons, who were engaged in the job, by no means to attempt to burn it off till he re- turned, as he wished to be upon the premises himself, in case of any danger. He had previously burnt all the heaps im- mediately about the doors. While he was absent, old Thomas and his second son fell sick with the ague, and went home to their own township, leaving John, a surly, obstinate young man, in charge of the shanty, where they slept, and kept their tools and provisions. Monaghan I had sent to fetch up my three cows, as the children were languishing for milk, and Mary and I remained alone in the house with the little ones. The day was sultry, and towards noon a strong wind sprang up that roared in the pine tops like the dashing of distant bil- lows, but without in the least degree abating the heat. The children were lying listlessly upon the floor for coolness, and the girl and I were finishing sun-bonnets, when Mary suddenly exclaimed, " Bless us, mistress, what a smoke !" I ran im- mediately to the door, but was not able to distinguish ten yards before me. The swamp immediately below us was on fire, and the heavy wind was driving a dense black cloud of smoke directly towards us. " What can this mean V I cried, " Who can have set fire to the fallow'?" As I ceased speaking, John Thomas stood pale and trem bling before me. " John, what is the meaning of this fire V " Oh, ma'am, I hope you will forgive me ; it was I set fire to it, and I would give all I have in the world if I had not done it." "What is the danger r " Oh, I'm terribly afeard that we shall all be burnt up,** said the fellow, beginning to whimper. " Why did you run such a risk, and your master from noiHc. and no one on the place to render the least assistance?'* BUUmXG THE FALLOW. 53 n pom •*I did it for the best," blubbered the lad. " What shall we dof " Why, we must get out of it as fast as we can, and leava the house to its fate." " We can't get out," said the man, in a low, hollow tone, which seemed the concentration of fear ; " I would have got out of it if I could ; but just step to the back door, ma'am, and see." I had not felt the least alarm up to this minute ; I had never seen a fallow burnt, but I had heard of it as a thing of such common occurrence that I had never connected with it any idea of danger. Judge then, my surprise, my horror, when, on going to the back door, I saw that the fellow, to m.ake sure of his work, had fired the field in fifty different places. Behind, before, on every side, we were surrounded by a wall of fire, burning furio\isly within a hundred yards of us, and cutting oi all possibility of retreat ; for could we have found an opening through the burning heaps, we could not have seen our way through the dense canopy of smoke ; and, buried as we were in the heart of the forest, no one could discover our situation till we were beyond the reach of help. I closed the door, and went back to the parlour. Fear was knocking loudly at my heart, for our utter helplessness annihilated all hope of being able to effect our escape — I felt stupefied. The girl sat upon the floor by the children, who, unconscious of the peril that hung over them, had both fallen asleep. She was silently weeping ; while the fool who had caused the mischief was crvin"; aloud. A strange calm succeeded my first alarm ; tears and lamentations were useless ; a horrible death was impending over us, and yet I could not believe that we were to die. I sat down upon the step of the door, and watched the awful scene in silence. The fire was raging m the cedar swamp, im- 64 lUWGfllXC IT L\ THJi: BU6H. V ^ mediately below the ridge on which the house stood, and \\ presented a spectacle truij appalling. From out the dense folds of a canopy of black smoke, the blackest I ever saw, leaped up continually red forks of lurid flame as high as the tree tops, igniting the branches of a group of tall pines that had been left standing for *»«--logs. A deep gloom blotted /X-t\\) out the heavens from our sight. The air was filled with fiery "" particles, which floated even to the door-step — while the crack- ling and roaring of the flames might have been heard at a great distance. Could we have reached the lake shore, where several canoes were moored at the landing, by launching out into the water we should have been in perfect safety ; but, to attain this object, it was necessary to pass through this mimic hell ; and not a bird could have flown over it with unscorched wings. There was no hope in that quarter, for, could we have escaped the flames, we should have been blinded and choked by the thick, black, resinous smoke. The fierce wind drove the flames at the sides and back of the house up the clearing ; and our passage to the road, or to the forest, on the right and left, was entirely obstructed by a sea of flames. Our only ark of safety was the house, so long as it remained untouched by the consuming element. I turned to young Thomas, and asked him, how long he thought that would be. " When the fire clears this little ridge in front, ma'am. The Lord have mercy upon us, then, or we must all go !" " Cannot yoii^ John, try and make your escape, and fiee what can be done for us and the poor children'?" My eye fell upon the sleeping angels, locked peacefully iu each others arms, and my tears flowed for the first time. Mary, the servant-girl, looked piteously up in my face. The good, fiiithful creature had not uttered one word of complaint, but now she faltered forth, "The dear, precious lambs ! — Oh ! such a death!" JHURNINO THE FALLOW. 55 I threw myself down upon the floor beside them, and pressed them alternately to my heart, while inwardly I thanked God that they were asleep, unconscious of danger, and unable by their childish cries to distract our attention from adopting any plan which might otfer to effect their escape. The heat soon became suffocating. We were parched with thirst, and there was not a drop of water in the house, and none to be procured nearer than the lake. I turned once more to the door, hoping that a passage might have been burnt through to the water. I saw nothing but a dense cloud of fire and smoke — could hear nothing but the crackling and roaring of flames, which were gaining so fast upon us that I felt their scorching breath in my face. " Ah," thought I — and it was a most bitter thought — " what will my beloved husband say when he returns and finds that poor Susy and his dear girls have perished in this miserable manner % But God can save us yet." The thought had scarcely found a voice in my heart before the wind rose to a hurricane, scattering the flames on all sides into a tempest of burning billows. I buried my head in my apron, for I thought that our time was come, and that all was lost, when a most terrific crash of inunder burst over our heads, and, like the breaking of a water-spout, down came the rushing torrent of rain which had been pent up for so many weeks. In a few minutes the chip-yard was all afloat, and the fire effectually checked. The storm which, un- noticed })y us, had been gathering all day, and which was the only one of any note we had that summer, continued to rage all night, and before morning had quite subdued the cruel enemy, whose approach we had viewed with such dread. The imminent danger in which we had been placed struck me more forcibly after it was past than at the time, and both i' % ■w r>o nouGinxa it in the buhh. the girl and myself sank upon our knees, and lifted up oui hearts in humble thanksgiving to that God who had saved us by an act of His Providence from an awful and ^dden death. When all hope from human assistance was lost, His hand was mercifully stretched forth, making His strength more perfectly manifested in our weakness : — ** He is their stay when earthly help is loat, The light and anchor of the tempest-toss'd." There was one person, unknown to us, who had watched the progress of that rash blaze, and had even brought his canoe to the landing, in the hope of getting us off. This was an Irish pensioner named Dunn, who had cleared a few acres on his government grant, and had built a shanty on the opposite shore of the lake. " Faith, madam ! an' I thought the captain was stark, sta- ring mad to fire his fellow on such a windy day, and that blow- ing right from the lake to the house. When Old Wittals came in and towld us that the masther was not to the fore, but only one lad, an' the wife an' the chilther at liome, — thinks 1, there's no time to be lost, or the crathurs will be burnt up intirely. We started instanther, but, by Jove ! we wen^- too late. The swamp was all in a blaze when we got to the landing, and you might as well have tried to get to heaven by passing through the other place." This was the eloquent harangue with which the honest creature informed me the next morning of the efforts hp- had made to save us, and the interest he had felt in our critical situation. I felt comforted for my past anxiety, by knowing that one human being, however humble, had sympathized in our probable fate ; while the providential manner in which we had been rescued will ever remain a theme of wonder and gratitude. JiUHyiNG THE FALLOW. &1 The next evening brought the return of my husband, who listened to the tale of our escape with a pale and disturbed countenance; not a little thankful to find his wife and children still in the land of the living. For a long time after the burning of that fallow, it haunted me in my dreams. I would awake with a start, imagining myself fighting with the flames, and endeavouring to carry uiy little children through them to the top of the clearing, when mvariably their garments and my own took fire just as I was withiii reach of a place of •afety. VOL. n. 8* , 58 MOUOHLNG IT IN THE BUSH. CHAPTER IV. OUR LOOGING-BEB. Tbare was a man in our towa^ ]« our town, iu our town— Tfevre was a man in our town, Be made a logging-bee ; And he bought lota of whiskeqTf To make the loggers frisky — To make the loggers frisky At bis logging-boo. Tbo Devil sat on a log heap, A Io« heap, a log heap — \ A red-hot burning iog heap — A-grinning at the bee ; And there was lots of swearing. Of boasting and of daring. Of fighting and of tnariug. At that logging-bee. J. W. D. M. A LOGGING-BEE followed the burning of the fallow, as a matter of course. In the bush, w^here hands are, few, and labour commands an enormous rate of wages, these gather- ings are considered indispensable, and much has been written in their praise ; but, to me, they present the most disgusting picture of a bush life. They are noisy, riotous, drunken meet- ings, often terminating in violent quarrels, sometim«^s even in bloodshed. Accidents of the most serious nature often occur, and very little work is done, when we consider the number of hands employed, and the great consumption of food ftud OUR LOGGINO-BEE. 59 liquor. I am certain, in our case, had we hired with the money expended in providing for the bee, two or three industrious, hard-working men, we should have got through twice as much woric, and have had it done well, and have heen the gainers in the end. People in the woods have a craze for giving and going to bees, and run to them with as much eagerness as a peasant runs to a race-course or a fair ; plenty of strong drink and ex- citement making the chief attraction of the bee. In raising a house or barn, a bee may be looked upon as a necessary evil, but these gatherings are generally conducted in a more orderly manner than those for logging. Fewer hands are required ; and they are generally under the control of the carpenter who puts up the frame, and if they get drunk during the raising they are liable to meet with very serious accidents. Thirty-two men, gentle and simple, were invited to our bee, and the maid and I were engaged for two days preceding the important one, in baking and cooking for the entertain- ment of our guests. When I looked at the quantity of food we had prepared, I thought that it never could be all eaten, even by thirty-two men. It was a burning-hot day towards the end of July, when our loggers began to come in, and the " gee !" and " ha !" of the oxen resounded on every side. There was my brother S , with his frank English face, a host in himself; Lieutenant in his blouse, wide white trowsers, and red sash, his broad straw hat shading a dark manly face that would have been a splendid property for a bandit chief; the four gay, reckless, idle sons of , famous at any spree, but incapable of the least mental or physical ex- ertion, who considered hunting and fishing as the sole aim and object of life. These young men rendered very little assist- ance themselves, and their example deterred others who were inclined to work. ■I i ♦iO hoiiiiiLW IT /.v TffF. nrsH. ITiere were the two U s, who came to work and to-^ make others work ; my good brother-in-law, who had vohm* ^ teered to be the Grog Bos^ and a host of other settlers, among whom I recognized Moodie's old acquaintance, Dan Simpson, with his lank red hair and long freckled face : the Youngs, the hunters, with their round, black, curly heads and ricn Irish brogue •, poor C , with his long, sp'"e, consumptive figure, and thin, sickly face. Poor fePow, iic has long since been gathered to his rest ! There was the ruffian quatter P , from Clear Lake, — the dread of all honest men ; the brutal M , who treatevi oxen as if they had been logs, by beating them with hand- spikes ; and there was Old Wittals, with his low fore- head and long nose, a living witness of the truth of phrenology, if his large organ of acquisitiveness and his want of conscien- tiousness could be taken in evidence. Yet in spite of his dere- lictions from honesty, he was a hard-working, good-natured man, who, if he cheated you in a bargain, or took away some useful article in mistake from your homestead, never wronged his employer in his day's work. He was a curious sample of cunning and simplicity — quite a character in his way — and the largest eater I ever chanced to know. From this ravenous propensity, for he eat his food like a famished woll^ he had obtained the singular name of "Wittals." Duiing the first year of his settlement in the bush, with a very large ^amily to provide for, he had been o len in want of food. One day he came to my brother, with a very long face. " 'Fore God ! Mr. S , I'm no beggar, but I'd be obliged to you for a loaf of bread. I declare to you on my honour that I have not had a bit of wittals to dewour for two whole days." He came to the right person with his petition. Mr. S OUR LOOGINO-BEE. 01 with a liberal land relieved his wants, but he entailed upon him the name of " Old Wittals," as part payment. His daughter, who was a very pretty girl, had stolen a march upon him into the wuod, with a lad whom he by no means regarded with a favourable eye. When she returned, the old man con fronted her and fter lover with this threat, which I suppose he conside. i " the most awful" punishment that he could devise. " March into the house. Madam 'Ria (Maria) ; and if ever I catch you with that scamp again, I'll tie you up to a stump all day, and give you no wittals." I was greatly amused by overhearing a dialogue between Old Wittals and one of his youngest sons, a sharp, Yankeefied- looking boy, wno had lost one of his eyes, but the remaining orb looked as if it could sec all ways at once. " I say, Sol, how came you to tell that tarnation tearing lie to Mr. S yesterday? Didn't you expect tha you'd catch a good wallopping for the like of thaf? Lying may be excusable in a man, but 'tis a terrible bad habit in a boy." " Lor', father, that worn't a lie. I told Mr. S . our cow worn't in his peas. Nor more she wor : she was in his wheat." " But she was in the peas all night, boy." " That wor nothing io me ; she worn't in just then Sure I won't get a licking for that V " No, no, you are a good boy ; but mind what 1 tell you, and don't bring me into a scrape with any of your real lies." Prevarication, the worst of falsehoods, was a virtue in his eyes. So much for the old man's morality. Monaghan was in his glory, prepared to work or fight, whichever should come uppermost ; and there was old Thomas and his sons, the contractors for the clearing-, tj expedite whose niuvements the bee was called. 01<^ Ihtt^'^ 09 ROUGHINO IT IN THE BUSIL was a very ambitious man in his way. Though he did not know A from B, he took 't into his head that he had received H call from Heaven to cciivert the heathen in the wilderness ; and every Sunday he held a meeting in our logger's shanty, for the purpose of awakening sinners, and bringin jj over •' hijun pagans" to the true faith. His method of accoi.iplish- mg this object was very ingenious. He got his wife, Peggy — or " my Paggy," as he called her — to read aloud for him a text from the Bible, until he knew it by heart ; and he had, as he said truly, " a good remembrancer," and never heard a striking sermon but he retained the most important passages, and retailed them secondhand to his bush audience. 1 must say that I was not a little surprised at the old man's elo(pience when I went one Sunday over to the shanty to hear him preach. Several wild young fellows had come on purpose to make fun of him ; but his discourse, which was upon the text, " We shall all meet before the judgment-seat of Christ," was rather too serious a subject to tui'u into a jest, with even old Thomas for the preacher. All went on very well until the old man gave out a hymn, and led off in such a loud, dis- cordant voice, that my little Katie, who was standing between her father's knees, looked suddenly up, and said, "Mamma, what a noise old Thomas makes !" This remark led to a much greater noise, and the young men, unable to restrain their long-suppressed laughter, ran tumultuously from the shanty. 1 could have whipped the little elf; but small blame could be attached to a child of two years old, who had never heard a preacher, especially such a preacher as the old back woodsman, in her life. Poor man ! he was perfectly uncon- scious of the cause of the disturbance, and remarked to us, after the service was over, " Well, ma'am, did not we get on famously ? Now, wom't that a hooti/iil discourse ?" OUR LOUlim-UKK. 03 ** It wa.s, indeed ; much better than I expected." *' Yes, yes ; I knew it would please you. It luid quite an effect on those wild fellows. A few more such sermons will teach them good behavicjur. Ah ! the bush is a bad place for young men. The farther in th(i bush, say I, the farther from God, and the nearer to hell. I told that wicked Captain I ■ - of Dunmier so the other Sunday ; ' an',' s^iys he, ' 5f you don't hold your confounded jaw, you old fool, I'll kick you there.' Now, ma'am, now, sir, was not that bad manners in a gentle- man, to use such appropriate tpita2)lis to a humble servant of God, like 1 1" And thus the old man ran on for an hour, dilating upon his own merits and the sins of his neighbours. ITiere was John II , from Smith-town, the most noto- rious swearer in the district ; a man who esteemed himself clever, nor did he want for natural talent, but he had con- verted his mouth into such a sink of iniquity that it corrupted the whole man, and all the weak anfl thoughtless of his own sex who admitted him into their company. I had tried to convince John R — — (for he often frequented the house under the pretence of borrowing books) of the great crime that he was constantly committing, and of the injurious effect it must produce upon his own family, but the mental disease had taken too deep a root to be so easily cured. Like a person labouring under some foul disease, he contaminated all he touched. Such men seem to make an ambitious display of their bad habits iii such scenes, and if they afford a little help, they are sure to get intoxicated and make a row. There was my friend, old Ned Dunn, who had been so anxious to get us out of the burning fallow. There was a whole group of Dummer Pines : Levi, the little wiry, witty poacher ; Cor- nish Bill, the honest-hearted old peasant, with his stalwart figure and uncouth dialect; and David, and Ned-'-all good , ■[ «)4 ROUGHING IT IN THE BU6H men and true; and Malachi Chroak, a queer, withered-upj monkey-man, that seemed like some mischievous elf, flitting from heap to heap to make work and fun for the rest ; and many others were at that bee who have since found a rest in the wilderness: Adam T , H , J. M , H. N ITiese, at different times, lost their lives in those bright waters in which, on such occasions as these, they used to sport and frolic to refresh themselves during the noonday heat. Alas ! how many, who were then young and in their prime, that river and its lakes have swept away ! Our men worked well until dinner-time, when, after wash- ing in the lake, they all sat down to the rude board which I had prepared for them, loaded with the best fare that could be procured in the bush. Pea-soup, legs of pork, venison, eel, and raspberry pies, garnished with plenty of potatoes, and whiskey to wash them down, besides a large iron kettle of tea. To pour out the latter, and dispense it round, de- volved upon me. My lorother and his friends, who were all temperance men, and consequently the best workers in the field, kept me and the maid actively employed in replenishing their cups. The dinner passed ofl' tolerably well ; some of the lower order of the Irish settlers were pretty far gone, but they com- mitted no outrage upon our feelings by either swearing or bad language, a few harmless jokes alone circulating among them. Some one was funning Old Wittals for having eaten seven large cabbages at Mr. T 's bee, a few days previous. His son, Sol, thought himself, as in duty bound, to take up the cudgel for his father. " Now, I guess that's a lie, anyhow. Fayther ^vas sick that day, and I tell you he only ate five." This announcement was followed by such an explosion of mirth that the bov looked fiercely round him, as if he could OUR LOGO I NO BEE. 05 f ' .K'ai'cely V)elieve the fact that the whole party woiv hiughiii^ at him. Malachi Chroak, who was good-naturedly drunk, had dis- covered an old pair of cracked .bellows in a corner, which he placed under his arm, and applying his mouth to the pipC; and working his elbows to and fro, pretended that he was playing upon the bagpipes, every now and then letting the wind escape in a shrill squeak from this novel instrument. " Arrah, ladies and jintlemen, do jist turn your swatc little eyes upon me whilst I play for your iddifications the last illi- gant tune which my owld grandmother taught me. Och hone ! 'tis a thousand pities that such musical owld crathurs should be sufl'ered to die, at all at all, to be poked away into a dirthy, dark hole, when their canthles shud be burn in' a-top of '\ bushel, givin' light to the house. An' then it is she that was the illigant dancer, stepping out so lively and frisky, just so." And here he minced to and fro, affecting the airs of a fine lady. The supposititious bagpipe gave an uncertain, ominous howl, and he flung it down, and started back with a ludicrous expression of alarm. " Alive, is it ye are? Ye croaking owld divil, is that th« tr.ne you taught your son ? ** Och ! my owld f,'ranny tnught me, bnt now she is dead, That a dhrop of nate wliiakey is {^ood for the head ; It would make a man spake when jist ready to dhie, If you doubt it — my boys ! — I'd advise you to thry. "Och ! my owld granny sleeps with her head on a stone,— 'Now, Malach, don't tlirouble the gals when I'm gone!' I thried to obey her; but, och, I am sliure, There's no sorrow on earth that the angels can't cure. "Och I I took her advic«i — I'm a bachelor still ; And I dance, and I play, with kucIi excellent skill, ( Taking vp the belhics, and beginning tv danc4,) That the dear little crathura are striving in vain Which first shall my hand or my fortin' obtain." m ROUOHINQ IT IN THE BUSH. " Malach !'' shouted a laughing group. " Ho%\ was it ihut the old lady taught you to go a-courting T "Arrah, that's a sacret! I don't let out owld granny^g sacrcts," said Malachi, gracefully waving his head to and fro to tlie squeaking of the bellows ; then, suddenly tossing back the long, dangling, black elf-locks that curled down the sides of his lank, yellow cheeks, and winking knowingly with his comical little deep-seated black eyes, he burst out again — ** "Wid the blarney I'd win tlio most dainty proud dame, No gal can rci«ist the soft sound of that same ; Wid the bhirney, my boys — if you doubt it, go thry — But hand here the bottle, my whistle ia dhry." The men went back to the field, leaving Malachi to amuse those who remained in the house ; and Wvj certainly did laugh our fill at his odd capers and conceits. Then he would insist upon marrying our maid. Ther« could be no refusal — have her he would. The girl, to keep him quiet, laughingly promised that she would take him for her husband. This did not satisfy him. She must take her oath upon the Bible to that effect. Mary pretended that there was no bible in the house, but he found an old spelling- book upon a shelf in the kitchen, and upon it he made her swear, and called upon me to bear witness to Iier oath, that she was now his betrothed, and he would go next day with her to the " praist. ' Poor ]\Iary had reason to repent her frolic, for he stuck close to her the whole evening, tormenting her to fulfil her contract. After the sun went down, the log- gmg-band came in to supper, which was all ready for them. Those who remained sober ate the meal in peace, and quietly returned to their own homes; while the vicious and the drunken staid to brawl and fight. After having placed the supper on the table, I was so tired OUR LOGGING-BEE. CT with the noise, and heat, and fatigue of the day, that I went to bed, leaving to Mary and my husband the care of the guests. f We were obliged to endure a second and a tliird repetition of this odious scene, before sixteen acres of land were rendered fit for the reception of our tall crop of wheat. My hatred to these tumultuous, disorderly meetings was not in the least decreased by my husband being twice seriously hurt while attending them. After the second injury he re- ceived, he seldom went to them himself, but sent his oxen and servant in his place. In these odious gatherings, the sober, moral, and industrious man is more likely to sufler than the drunken and profane, as during the delirium of drink these men expose others to danger as well as themselves. The conduct of many x.1 the settlers, who considered them- sel ves gentlemen , and would have been very much affronted to have been called otherwise, was often more rej^rghen^ible th an tha t of thejioor Irish emigrants, to whom they should have set an example of order and sobriety. The behaviour of these young men drew upon them the severe but just cen- sures of the poorer class, whom they regarded in every way as their inferiors, " That blackguard calls himself a gentleman. In what respect is he better than us ?" was an observation too fre- quently made use of at these gatherings. To see a bad man in the very worst point of view, follow him to a bee ; be he profane, licentious, quarrelsome, or a rogue, all his native wickedness will be fully developed there. Just after the last of these logging-bees, we had to part tvith our good servant jMary, and just at a time when it was .he heaviest loss to me. Iler father, who had been a dairy- man in the north of Ireland, an honest, industrious man, had brought out upwards of one hundred pounds to this country I •I' II 68 RuUic^HlNG IT IN THK Bi'SH. \ With more wisdom than is generally exercised by Irish eml grants, instead of sinking all his means in buying a bush farm he hired a very good farm in Cavan, stocked it with cattle, annnected with it. She might have fellen a ^nctin: to disease during the wanderings of her tribe, and been buried on that spot ; or she might have been drowned, which would account for her having been buried ftway from the rest of her people. Tliis little lake lies in the heart of the wilderness. There is but one clearing upon its shores, and that had been made VOL. II. 4 I I: ^■i' T 74 HOUGHING IT L\ THE BUSH. by lumberers many years befora ; the place abounded with red cedar. A second frrowth of young timber had grown up in this spot, Nvhieh was covered also with ras[)berry bushes- several hundred acres l)eiiig entirely overgrown with this do. licious berry. It was here ainuially that we used to come in large picnic parties, to collect this valuable fruit for our winter preserves, In defiance of black-dies, moscjuitcK's, snakes, and even bears ; all which have been encountered by berry-pickers upon this spot, as busy and as active as themselves, gathering an ample repast from Nature's bounteous lap. And, oh ! what beautiful wild shrubs and flowers grew up in that neglected spot ! Some of the happiest hours I spent in the bush are connected with reminiscences of " Irving'a shanty," for so the raspberiy-grounds were called. The clear- ing could not be seen from the shore. You had to scramble through a cedar swamp to reach the sloping ground which produced the berries. The mill at the Clear Lake rapids was about three miles distant from our own clearing ; and after stemming another rapid, and passing bocween two beautiful wooded islands, the canoe rounded a point, and the rude structure was before us. A wilder and more romantic spot than that which the old Hunter had chosen for his homestead in the wilderness could scarcely be imagined. The waters of Clear Lake here empty themselves through a narrow, deej), rocky channel, not exceed- ing a quarter of a mile in length, and tumble over a limestone fridge of ten or twelve feet ir height, which extends from one bank of the river to the other. The shores on either side are very steep, and the large oak-trees which have anchored their roots in every crevice of the rock, throw then* fantastic arms far over the foaming waterfall, the deep green of their massy foliage forming a beautiful contrast with the white, flashing MMM A TRIP TO &TONY LAKE. 75 waters that foam over the shoot at least fifty feet below the brow of the llmostoiie rock. By a flight of steps cut in the banks we ascended to the platform above the river on which Mr. Y 's house stojd. It was a large, rough-looking, log building, surrounded by barns and sheds of the same ])rimitive nuiterial. The porch before the door was covered with h(jps, and the room of gen- eral resort, into which it immediately opened, was cf large dimensions, the huge fire-place foiniing the most striking fea- ture. On the hearth-stone, hot as was the weather, blazed a great fire, encumbered with all sorts of culinary apparatus, which, I am inclined to think, had been called into requisition for our sole benefit and accommodation. The good folks had breakfasted long before we started from home, but they would not hear of our proceeding to Stouy Lake until after we had dined. It was only eight o'clock, A. M., and we had still four hours to dinner, which gave us ample leisure to listen to the old man's stories, ramble round the premises, and observe all the striking features of the place. Mr. Y was a Catholic, and the son of a respectable farmer from the south of Ireland. Some few years before, he had emigrated with a large fjimily of seven sons and two daughters, and being fond of field sports, and greatly taken with the beauty of the locality in which he had pitched his tent in the wilderness, he determined to raise a mili jpon the dam which Nature had provided at his hands, and wait pa- tiently until the increasing immigration should settle the town- ship of Smith and Douro, render the property valuable, and bring plenty of grist to the mill. lie was not far wrong in his calculations ; and though, for the first few years, he subsisted entirely by hunting, fishing, and raising what potatoes and wheal he required for his own family, on the most fertile spots *.>.^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) IttlM 125 1.0 m u lU 12.2 I.I £ 11° 12.0 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STREIT WfBSTIt,N.Y. I4SM (716)«7a-4»03 ^ M 7e RDUGHINQ IT IN THE BUSH. he 0^/jld fii d on his barren lot, very little corn passed through the milL At the t/me we visited his place, he was driving a thriving trade, and all the wheat that was grown in the neighbourhood was brought by water to be ground at Y 's mill. He had lost his wife a few years after conimg to the country ; but his two daughters, Betty and Norah, were excellent housewives, and amply supplied her loss. From these amiable women wf received a most kind and hearty welcome, and every ?jmfort and luxury within their reach. They appeared a most happy and contented family. The sons — a fine, hardy, mdependent set of fellow^s — were regarded by the old man with pride and affection. Many were his anecdotes of their prowess in hunting and fishing. His method of giving them an aversion to strong drink while very young amused me greatly, but it is not every child that could have stood the test of his experiment. " When they were little chaps, from five to six years of age, I made them very drunk," he said ; " so drunk that it brought on severe headache and sickness, and this so disgusted them with liquor, that they never could abide the sight of it again. I have only one drunkard among the seven ; and he was such a weak, puling crathur, that I dared not play the same game with him, lest it should kill him. 'Tis his nature, I suppose, and he can't help it ; but the truth is, that to make up for the sobriety of all the rest, he is killing himself with drink." Norah gave us an account of her catching a deer that had got into the enclosure the day before. "I went out," she said, " early in the morning, to milk the cows, and I saw a fine young buck struggling to get through a pale of the ience, in which having entangled his head and horns, I knew, by the desperate efforts he was making to push N i A TRIP TO STONY LaKE. 71 ftside the rails, thai if I was not quick in getting hold of him, he would soon be gone." "And did you dare to touch him?" " If I had had Mat's gun I would have shot him, but he would have made his escape long before I could run to the house for that, so I went boldly up to him «nd got hin. by the hind legs ; and though he kicked and struggled dreadfully, I held on till Mat heard me call, and ran to my hel p, and cut his throat with his hunting-knife. So you see," she con- tinued, with a good-natured laugh, " I can beat our hunters hollow — they hunt the deer, but I can catch a buck with my hands." While we were chatting away, great were the preparations making by Miss Betty and a very handsome American woman, who had recently come thither as a help. One little bare- footed garsoon was shelling peas in an Indian basket, another was stringing currants into a yellow pie-dish, and a third was sent to the rapids with his rod and line, to procure a dish of fresh fish to add to the long list of bush dainties that were preparing for our dinner. It was in vain that I begged our kind entertainers not to put themselves to the least trouble on our account, telling them that we were now used to the woods, and contented with any thing ; they were determined to ex- haust all their stores to furnish forth the entertainment. Nor can it be wondered at, that, with so many dishes to cook, and pies and custards to bake, instead of dining a'u twelve, it was past two o'clock before we were conducted to the dinner-table. I was vexed and disappointed at the delay, as I wanted to see all I could of the spot we were about to visit before night and darkness compelled us to return. Tlie feast was spread in a large outhouse, the table being formed of two broad deal boards laid together, and supported by rude carpenter's stools. A white linen cloth, a relic of 78 ROUQHINO IT IN THE BUSIL better days, concealed these arrangements. The board was covered with an indesr.ribaMe variety of roast and boiled, of fish, flesh, and fowl. My readers should see a table laid out in a wealthy Canadian farmer's house before they can have any idea of the profusion displayed in the entertaiiinaent of two visitors and their young children. Besides venison, pork, chickens, ducks, and fish of several kinds, cooked in a variety of ways, there was a number of pumpkin, raspberry, cherry, and cuiTant pies, with fresh butter and green cheese (as the ^ new cream-cheese is called), molasses, preserves, and pickled cucumbers, besides tea and coffee — the latter, be it known, I ^ had watched the American woman boiling ir \hQ Jrying-pan. ^^ It was a black-looking compound, and I did not attempt to^ I discuss its merits. The vessel in which it had been prepared had prejudiced me, and rendered me very skeptical on that score. We were all very hungry^ having tasted nothing since five o'clock in the morning, and contrived, out of the variety of good things before us, to make an excellent dinner. I was glad, however, when we rose to prosecute our in- tended trip up the lake. The old man, whose heart was now thoroughly warmed with whiskey, declared that he meant to make one of the party, and Betty, too, was to accompany us ; her sister Norah kindly staying behind to take care of the children. We followed a path along the top of the high ridge of limestone rock, until we had passed the falls and the rapids above, when we found Pat and Mat Y waiting for us on the shore below, in two beautiful new birch-bark canoes, which they had purchased the day before from the Indians. Miss Betty, Mat, and myself, were safely stowed into one, while the old miller and his son Pat, and my hu&band, em- barked in the other, and our steersmen pushed off into the middle of the deep and silent stream ; the shadow of the taU m m Ax A miF TO rroyy lake. 79 woods, towering so many feet above us, casting an iniiy hu« upon the waters. The scene was very imposing, and after paddling for a few minuter in shade and silence, we suddenly emerged into light and sunshine, and Clear Lake, which gets its name from the unrivalled brightness of its waters, spread out its azure mirror before us. The Indians regard this sheet of water with peculiar reverence. It abounds in the finest sorts of fish, the salmon-trout, the delicious white fish, muske- nonge, and black and white bass. There is no island in this lake, no rice beds, nor stick nor stone, to break its tranquil beauty, and, at the time we visited it, there was but one clearing upon its shores. The log hut of the squatter P , commanding a beauti- ful prospect up and down the lake, stood upon a bold slope fronting the water; all the rest was unbroken forest. "We had proceeded about a mile on our pleasant voyage, when our attention was attracted by a singular natural phenomenon, which Mat Y called the battery. On the right-hand side of the shore rose a oteep, perpendicular wall of limestone, that had the appearance of having been laid by the hand of man, so smooth and even was its surface. After attaining a height of about fifty feet, a natural platform of eight or ten yards broke the perpendicular line of the rock, when another wall, like the first, rose to a considerable height, terminating in a second and third pUtform of the same description. Fire, at some distant period, had run over these singularly beautiful terraces, and a second growth of poplars and balm- of-gileads relieved, by their tender green and light, airy foilage, the sombre indigo tint of the heavy pines that nodded like the plumes of a funeral-hoarse over the fair young dwell- ers on the rock. The water is forty feet deep at the base of this precipice, which is washed by the waves. After we had passed the battery, Mat Y turned to me and said, " That ifjbMt' II I m i/4 80 IWUGlJiyo IT IX THE BUSH. is a famous place for bears ; many a bear have I shot among those rocks." This led to a long discussion on the wild beasts of the country. ** I do not think that there is much danger to be appr©- bended from them," said he ; " but I once had an ugly adven ;ure with a wolf two winters ago, on this lake." I was all curiosity to hear the story, which sounded doubly interesting told on the very spot, and while gliding over those lovely waters. " We were lumbering at the head of Stony Lake, about eight miles from here, my four brothers, myself, and several other hands. The winter was long and severe ; although it was the first week in March, there was not the least appear- ance of a thaw, and the ice on these lakes was as firm as ever. I had been sent home to fetch a yoke of oxen to draw the saw-logs down to the water, our chopping being all com- pleted, and the logs ready for rafting. " I did not think it necessary to encumber myself with my rifle, and was, therefore, provided with no weapon of defence but the long gad I used to urge on the cattle. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when I rounded Sandy Point, that long point which is about a mile ahead of us on the left shore, when I first discovered that I was followed, but at a great distance, by a large wolf. At first, I thought little of the circumstance, beyond a passing wish that I ' had brought my gun. I knew that he would not attack me before dark, and it was still two long hours to sundown ; so I whistled, and urged on my oxen, and soon forgot the wolf — when, on stopping to repaii' a little damage to the peg of the yoke, I was surprised to find him close at my heels. I turned, and ran towards him, she uting as loud as I could, when he slunk back, but showed no nclination to make off*. Knowing that A TRIP TO STONY LA KE. 81 he must have companions near, by his boldness, I shouted as loud as I could, hoping that my cries might be heard by my brothers, who would imagine that the oxen had got into the ice, and would come to my assistance. I was now winding my way through the islands in Stony Lake ; the sun was setiing red before me, and I had still three miles of my jour- ney to accomplish. The wolf had become so impudent that I kepi him off by pelting him with snowballs ; and once he came so near that I struck him with the gad. I now began to be seriously alarmed, and from time to time shouted with all my strength ; and you may imagine my joy when these cries were answered by the report of a gun. My brothers had heard me, and the discharge of a gun, for a moment, seemed to daunt the wolf. He uttered a long howl, which was answered by the cries of a large pack of the dirty brutes from the wood. It was only just light enough to distinguish objects, and I had to stop and face my enemy, to keep him at bay. " I saw the skeleton forms of half-a-dozen more of them slinking among the bushes that skirted a low island ; and tired and cold, I gave myself and the oxen up for lost, when I felt the ice tremble on which I stood, and heard men running at a distance. * Fire your guns!' I cried out, as loud as I could. My order was obeyed, and such a yelling and howling imme- diately filled the whole forest as would have chilled your very heart. The thievish varmints instantly fled away into the bush. " I never felt the least fear of wolves until that night ; but when they meet in large bands, like cowardly dogs, they trust to their numbers, and grow fierce. If you meet with one wolf, you may be certain that the whole pack are at no great distance." We werf fast approaching Sandy I'oint, a long w^iite ri-lge VOL. II 4* •ji* 8'i BOUOUING IT IN TUB BUSH. i- H II .' hi - y'- ■' '!:. of sand, running half across the lake, and though only covsred with scattered groups of scrubby trees and brush, it effect, ually screened Stony Lake from our view. There were so many b(.'autiful flowers peeping through the dwarf, green bushes^ that, wishing to inspect them nearer. Mat kindly ran the canoe asnore, and told me that he would show me a pretty spot, where an Indian, who had been drowned during a storm off that point, was buried. I immediately recalled the story of Susan Moore's father, but Mat thought that he was interred upon one of the islands farther up. " It is strange," he said, " that they are such bad swimmers. The Indian, though unrivalled by us whites in the use of the paddle, is an animal that does not take readily to the water, and those among them who can sw'm seldom use it as a recreation." Pushing our way through the bushes, we came to a small opening in the underwood, so thickly grown over with wild Canadian roses in full blossom, that the air was impregnated with a delightful odour. In the centre of this bed of sweets rose the humble mound that protected tb« bones of the red man from the ravenous jaws of the wolf and the wild-cat. It was completely covered with stones, and from among the crevices had sprung a tuft of blue harebells, waving as wild and free as if they grew anionjx th( bonny red hea- ther on the glorious hills of the North, or shook their tiny bells to the breeze on the broom-encircled commons of England. The harebell had always from a child been with me a fa- vourite flower ; and the first sight of it in Canada, growing upon that lonely grave, so flooded my soul with remembrances of the past, that, in spite of myself, the tears poured freely from my eyes. There are moments when it is impwrfMe tc repress those outgiishings of the heart— , I A TliW TO a TO NY LAKE. "Those flood-gates of iho soul that sever, * In piission's tide to part for ever." If Mat and his sister wondered at my tears, they must have suspected the cause, for they walked to a little distance, and left me to the indulgence of my feelings. I gathered thosa flowers, and placed them in my bosom, and kept them for many a day ; they had become holy, when connected with wacred home recollections, and the never-dying affections of the heart which the sight of them recalled. A shout from our companions in the other canoe made ua retrace our steps to the shore. Tliey had already rounded the point, and were wondering at our absence. Oh, what a magnificent scene of wild and lonely grandeur burst upon us as we swept round the little peninsula, and the whoJe majesty of Stony Lake broke upon us at once ; another Lake of the Thousand Isles, in miniature, and in the heart of the wilder- ness ! Imagine a large sheet of water, some lifteen miles in breadth and twenty-five in length, taken up by islands of every size and sliape, from the lofty naked rock of red granite to the rounded hill, covered with oak-leaves to its summit ; I while others were level with the waters, and of a rich emerald green, only fringed with a growth of aquatic shrubs and flowers. Never did my eyes rest on a more lovely or beau- tiful scene. Not a vestige of man, or of his works, was there. The setting sun, that ca^t such a gorgeous flood of light upon this exquisite panorama, bringing out some of these lofty islands in strong relief, and casting others into intense shade, Bhed no cheery beam upon church spire or cottage pane. We beheld the landscape, savage and grand in its primeval beauty. As we floated among the channels between these rocky picturesque isles, I asked Mat how many of them there were. " 1 never could succeed," he said. " hi counting them all. :i.7 64 ROUOniSO IT IN THE BUSH. One Sunday, Pat and I spent a whole flay in going from one to the other, to try and make out how many there were, but we could only count up to one hundred and forty before we gave up the task in despair. There are a great nuiny of them ; more than any one would think — and, what is very singular, the channel between them is very deep, sometimes above forty feet, which accounts for the few rapids to be found in this lake. It is a glorious place for hunting ; and the wa- ters "irdisturbed by steamboats, abotmd in all sorts of fish. " Most of these islands are covered with huckleberries ; while grapes, high and low-bush cranberries, blackberries, wild cherries, gooseberries, and several sorts of wild currants grow here in profusion. There is one island among these groups (but I never could light upon the identical one) where the Indians yearly gather their wampum-grass. They come here to collect the best birch-bark for their canoes, and to gather wild onions. In short, from the game, fish, and fruit, which they collect among the islands of this lake, they chiefly depend for their subsistence. They are very jealoi's of the settlers in the country coming to hunt and fish hen;, and tell many stories of wild beasts and rattlesnakes that abound along its shores ; but I, who have frequented the lake for years, was never disturbed by any thing, beyond the adventure with the wolf, which I have already told you. The banks of this lake are all stCvjp and rocky, and the land along the shore is barren, and totally unfit for cultivation. " Had we time to nm up a few miles further, I could have showed you some places well worth a journey to look at; but the sun is already down, ar.d it will be dark before we get back to the mill." The other canoe now floated alongside, and Pat agreed with his brother that it was high time to return. With re- luctance I turned from this strangely fascinating scene. As j ^ A TRIP TO STONY LAKK. || we passed under one bold rocky island, Mat said, laughingly, "That is Mount Rascal." " How did it obtain tl lat name T "Oh, we were out here berrying, with our good priest Mr. B . This island promised so fair, that we landed upon it, and, after searching for an hour, we returned to the boat without a single berry, upon which Mr. B— — named it * Mount Rascal.'" The island was so beautiful, it did not deserve the name, and 1 christened it " Oak Hill," from the abundance of oak- trees which clothed its steep sides. The wood of this oak is so heavy and hard that it will not float in the water, and it is in great request for the runners of lumber-sleighs, which have to pass over very bad roads. The breeze, which had rendered our sail up the lakes so expeditious and refi'eshing, had stiffened into a pretty high wind, which was dead against us all the way down. Betty now knelt in the bow and assisted her broth^ir, squaw fashion, in paddling the canoe ; but, in spite of all their united exer. tions, it was past ten o'clock before we reached the mill. The good Norah was waiting tea for us. She had given the children their supper four hv iirs ago, and the little creatures, tired with using their feet all day, were sound asleep upon her bed. After supper, several Irish songs were sung, while Pat played upon the fiddle, and Betty and Mat enlivened the company with an Irish jig. It was midnight when the children were placed on my cloak at the bottom of the canoe, and we bade adieu to this hospitable family. The wind being dead against us, we were obliged to dispense with the sail, and take to our paddles. The moonlight was as bright as day, the air warm and balmy ; and the aromatic, resinous smell exuded by the heat from the 80 nouainsG it is the nusii. :{ bulnj-«»f-f?ilead and the piiio-trci'S in the forest, added greatly to our Huiise ol' unjoynieiit uh we floated past scenes so wild and lonely — isles that assumed a mysterious look and eharao tcr in that witching honr. In moments like these, I ceased to regret my separation from my native land; and, filled with tile love of Nature, my heart forgot for the time the love of home. The very spirit of peace seemed to brood over the waters, which were broken into a thousand ripples of light by every breeze that stirred the rice blossoms, or whispered through the shivering aspen-trees. The tar-oflf roar of the rapids, softened by distance, and the long, mournful ?ry of the night-owl, alone broke the silence of the night. Amid these lonely wilds the soul draws nearer to God, and is filled to overflowing by the overwhelming sense of I lis presence. It ^''.ta Iv'o o'clock in the morning when we fastened the canoe to the Is.nding, and Moodie carried up the children to th,j house. I found the girl still up with my boy, who had b'jen very restless during our absence. My heart reproached me, as I caught him to my breast, for leaving him so long; ill a few minutes he was consoled for past sorrows, and sleep iiig ciweetly in my arms. I D/SAP/'OLYTA'/' JfOPKS. 87 CHAPTER VI. DISAPPOINTED HOPES. THE summer of '35 was very wet ; a circumstance so un. usual in Canada that I have seen no season like it during my sojourn in the country. Our wheat crop promised to be both excellent and abundant; and the clearing and seeding sixteen acres, one way or another, had cost us more than fifty pounds ; still, we hoped 'o realize something handsome by the sale of the produce ; and, as far as appearances went, all looked fair. The rain commenced about a week before the crop was fit for the sickle, and from that time until nearly the I end of September was a mere succession of thunder showers ; days of intense heat, succeeded by fl(X)ds of rain. Our fine . crop shared the fate of all other fine crops in the country ; it was totally spoiled ; the wheat grew in the sheaf, and we could scarcely save enough to supply us with bad, sticky bread ; the rest was exchanged at the distillery for whiskey, which was the only produce which could be obtained for it. The store- keepers would not look at it, or gl ve either money or goods | for such a damaged article. My husband and I had worked hard in the field ; it was the first time 1 had ever tried my hand at field-labour, but our ready money was exhausted, and the steamboat stock had not paid us orie farthing ; we could not hire, and there was no help for it. I had a hard struggle with my pride before I -^ould consent to render the least assistance on the farm, bu. refieo- :> :'■ ■» 88 JiOirOIIINO IT IN THE BUSH. tion convinced me that I was wrong — that Providence had placed me in a situation where I was called upon to work — that it was not only my duty to obey that call, but to exert myself to the utmost to assist my husband, and help to muin- uiin my family. Ah, glorious poverty ! thou art a hard taskmaster, but in thy soul-ennobling school, I have received more god-like les- sons, have learned more sublime truths, than ever I acquired in the smooth highways of the world ! The independent in soul can rise above the seeming disgrace of poverty, and hold fast their integrity, in defiance of the world and its selfish and unwise maxims. To them, no labour is too great, no trial too severe ; they will unflmchingly exert every faculty of mind and body, before they will submit to become a burden to others. The misfortunes that now crowded upon us were the result of no misconduct or extravagance on our part, but arose out of circumstances which we could not avert nor control. Find- ing too late the error into which we had fallen, in suffering ourselves to be cajoled and plundered out of our property by interested speculators, we braced our minds to bear the worst, and determined to meet our difficulties calmly and firmly, nor suffer our spirits to sink under calamities which energy and industry might eventually repair. Having once come to this resolution, we cheerfully shared together the labours of the field. One in heart and purpose, we dared remain true to ourselves, true to our high destiny as immortal creatures, in our conflict with temporal and physical wants. We found that manual toil, however distasteful to those unaccustomed to it, was not after all such a dreadful hardship; that the wilder- ness was not without its rose, the hard face of poverty without its smile. If we occasionally suffered severe pain, we as oflen experienced great pleasure, and I have contemplated a well- DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 89 hoed ridge of potatoes on that bush farm, with as much dw that you cannot re[)laee. Almost all my cIoUr's had been appropriated to the payment of wages, or to obtain garments fur the children, excepting my wedding-dress, and the beautiful baby -linen which had been made by the hands of dear and affectionate friends for my first-born. These •were now exchanged for coarse, warm flannels, to shield her from the cold. Moodie and Jacob had chopped eight acres during the winter, but these had to be burnt oft' and logged- up before we could put in a crop of wheat for the ensuing fall. Had we been able to retain this industrious, kindly English lad, this would have been soon accomplished ; but his wages, at the rate of thircy pounds per annum, were now utterly be- yond our means. Jacob had formed un attachment to my pretty maid, Mary Pine, and before going to the Southern States, to join an uncle who resided in Louisville, an opulent tradesman, who had promised to teach him his business, Jacob thought it as well to declare himself. The declaration took place on a log of wood near the back door, and from mv chamber window I could both hear and see the parties, without being myself ob- sei'ved. Mary was seated very demurely at one end of the log, twisting the strings of her checked apron, and the loving Jacob was busily whittling the other extremity of their rustic scat. There w^as a long silence. Mary stole a look at Jacob, and he heaved a tremendous sigh, something between a yawn and a groan. " Meary," he said, " I must go." " I knew that afore," returned the girl. *' 1 had zummat to zay to you, Meary. Do you think you niSAPPOLVrED HOPES. 99 ^ill miss oie?" (looking very affectionately, and twitching nearer.) " Wliat put that into your head, Jacob V Tliia was said very demurely. " Oie thowt, maybe, Meary, that your feelings might be zummat loike my own. 1 f'3el zore about the heart, Meary, and it's all com' of parting with yoii. Doi *t you feel queerisih, too?" " Can't say that I do, Jacob. ! shall soon see you again,** (pulling violently at her apron-string.) "Meary, oi'm afeard you don't feel like oie." " P'r'aps not — women can't feel like men. I'm sorry that you are going, Jacob, for you have been very kind and obli- ging, and I wish you well." " Meary," cried Jacob, growing desperate at her coyness, and getting quite close up to her, " will you marry oie 1 Say yeez or noa. " This was coming close to the point. Mary drew farther from him, and turned her head away. " Meary," said Jacob, seizing upon the hand that held the apron-string, " do you think you can better yoursel' 1 If not — why, oie'm your man. Now^, do just turn about your head and answer oie." The girl turned round, and gave him a quick, shy glance, then burst out into a simpering laugh. " Meary, will you take oie?" (jogging her elbow.) " I will," cried the girl, jumping up from the log, and run- nisig into the house. " Well, that bargain's made," said the lover, rubbing his hands ; " and now, oie'll go and bid measter and missus good- buoy." The poor fellow's eyes were full of tears, for the children, who loved him very much, clung, crying, about his knees. 100 koughixg it i.\ rut: iwsn. "God bless yees all," s()bl)i'(] the kind-hearted eroatiiro, " Doan't forget Jacob, for he'll neaver forget you. Good, buoy !" Tlicn tuniing to Mary, he threw his arms round her neck, and bestowed upon her fair cheek the most audible kiss 1 ever heard. " And doan't you forget mo, Meary. In two years oie will bo back to marry you; and maybe oie may come back a rich man." Mary, who was an exceedingly pretty girl, shed some tears at the parting ; but in a few days she was as gay as ever, and listening with great attention to tho praises oestowed upon her beauty by an old bachelor, who was her senior by fivc-and- twenty years. But then he had a good farm, a saddle mare, and plenty of stock, and was reputed to have saved money. The saddle mare seemed to have great weight in old Ralph T h's wooing ; and I used laughingly to remind Mary of her absent lover, and beg her not to marry Ralph T— — h'n maro. ^ i THE LITTLE STUMPY MAN, 101 CHAPTER VII. THE LITTLK STUMPY MAN. BEFORE I dismiss for ever the troubles and sorrows of 1830, I would fiiln introduce to the notice of my readers some of the odd characters v.-ith whom we became acquainted during that period. The first that starts vividly to my recol- lection is the picture of a short, stumpy, thicl<-set man — a British sailor, too — who came to stay one night under our roof, and took quiet possession of his quarters for nine months, and whom we were obliged to tolerate from the simple fact that we could not get rid of him. During the fall, Moodie had met this individual (whom I will call Mr. Malcolm) in the mail-coach, going up to Toronto. Amused with his eccentric and blunt manners, and finding him a shrewd, clever fellow in conversation, Moodie told him that if ever he came into his part of the world he should be glad to renew their acquaintance. And so they parted, with mutual good-will, as men often part who have travelled a long journey in good fellowship together, without thinking it prob able they should ever meet again. The sugar season had just commenced with the spring thaw ; Jacob had tapped a few trees in order to obtain sap to make molasses for the children, when his plans were frus- trated by the illness of my husband, who was again attacked with the ague. Towards the close of a wet, sloppy night, while Jacob was in the wood, chopping, and our servant gone 1- 102 ROUOHINO !I JN THE BUSH. to my sister, who was ill, to help to wash, as I was busj baking bread for tea, my attention was aroused by a violent knocking at the door, and the furious barking of our dog, Hector. I ran to open it, when I found Hector's teeth clenched in the trowsers of a little, dark, thick-set man, who said in a gruff voice, " Call off ; our dog. What the devil do you keep such an infernal brute about the house for 1 Is it to bite people who come to see you ?" Hector was the best-behaved, best-tempered animal in the woiid ; he might have been called a gentlemanly dog. So little was there of the unmannerly puppy in his behaviour, that I was perfectly astonished at his ungracious conduct. I caught him by the collar, and not without some difficulty, succeeded 'm\ dragging him off. " Is Captain Moodie within ?" said the stranger. " He is, sir. But he is ill in bed — too ill to be seen." " Tell him a friend," (he laid a strong stress upon the last word,) " a particular friend must speak to him." I now turned my eyes to the face of the speaker with some curiosity. I had taken him for a mechanic, from his dirty, slovenly appearance ; and his physiognomy was so unpleasant that I did not credit his assertion that he was a friend of my husband, for I was certaia that no man who possessed such a forbidding aspect could be regarded by Moodie as a friend. I was about to deliver his message, but the moment I let go Hector's collar, the dog was at him again. " Don't strike him with your stick," I cried, throwing my tirnis over the faithful creature. " He is a powerful animal, and if you provoke him, he will kill you." I at last succeeded in coaxing Hector into the girl's room, v/here I shut him up, while the stranger came into the kitchen, and walked to the fu'e to dry his wet clothes. \ THE LITTLE STUMPY MAN. lOS I immediately went into the parlour, where Moodie waa lying upon a bed near the stove, to deliver the stranger's mes- sage ; but before I could say a word, he dashed in after me, and going up to the bed held out his broad, coarse hand, with, " How are you, Mr. Moodie. You see I have accepted your kind invitation sooner than either you or I expected. If you will give me house-room for the night I shall be obliged to you.*' This was said in a low, mysterious voice ; and Moodie, who was still struggling with the hot fit of his disorder, and whose senses were not a little confused, stared at him with a look of vague bewilderment. The countenance of the stranger grew dark. " You cannot have forgotten me — my name is Malcolm." " Yes, yes : 1 remember you now," said the invalid, holding 01 it his burning, feverish hand. To my home, such as it is, you are welcome." I stood by in wondering astonishment, looking from one to the other, as I had no recollection of ever hearing my hus- band mention the name of the stranger ; but as he had invited him to share our hospitality, I did my best to make him wel- come, though in what manner he was to be accommodated puzzled me not a little. I placed the arm-chair by the fire, and told him that I would prepare tea for him as soon as I could. " It may be as well to tell you, Mrs. Moodie," said he sulkily, for he was evidently displeased by my husband's want of recognition on his first entrance, "that I have had no dinner." I sighed to myself, for I well knew that our larder boasted of no dainties ; and from the animal expression of our guest'a (ace, I rightly judged that he was fond of good living. By the time I had fried a rasher of salt pork, and made a 1^ 104 MOUOIIim IT IN THE BUSH. Iff.. \\ \ ■ . 1 pot of dandelion coffee, the bread I had been preparing \^aa baked : but grown flour will not make light bread, and it was unusually heavy. For the first time I felt heartily ashamed of our humble fare. I was sure that he for whom it was pro vided was not one to pass it over in benevolent silence. " He might be a gentleman," I thought, "but he does not look like one ;" and a confused idea of who he was, and where Moodie had met with him, began to float through my mind. I did not like the appearance of the man, but I consoled myself that he was only to stay for one night, and I could give up my bed for that one night, and sleep on a bed on the floor by my .sick husband. When I re-entered the parlour to cover the table, I found Moodie fallen asleep, and Mr. Malcolm reading. As I placed the tea-things on the table, he raised his head, and regarded me with a gloomy stare. He was a strange-looking creature ; his features were tolerably regular, his complexion dark, with a good colour, his very broad and round head was covered with a perfect mass of close, black, curling hair, which, in growth, texture, and hue, resembled the wiry, curly hide of a water-dog. His eyes and mouth were both well-shaped, but gave, by their sinister expression, an odious and doubtful meaning to the whole of his physiognomy. The eyes were cold, insolent, and cruel, and as green as the eyes of a cat. The mouth bespoke a sullen, determined, and sneering dispo- sition, as if it belonged to one brutally obstinate, one who could not by any gentle means be persuaded from his pur- pose. Such a man in a passion would have been a terrible wild beast ; but the current of his feelings seemed to flow in a deep sluggish channel, rather than in a violent or impetuous one ; and, like William Penn, when he reconnoitred his unwel- come visitors through the keyhole of the door, I looked at my strange guest, and liked him not. Perhaps my distant and eon- strained manner made him painfully aware of the fact, for I am l!l> M THE LITTLE STUMPY MAN. 105 certain that, from that first hour of our acquaintance, a deep- rooted antipathy existed between us, which time seemed rather to strengcnen than diminish. He ate of his meal sparingly, and with evident disgust ; the cnly remarks which dropped from him were : " You make bad bread in the bush. Strange, that you can't keep your potatoes from the frost ! 1 should have thought that you could have had thuigs more comfortable in the ■woods." " We have been very unfortunate," I said, " since we came to the woods. I am sorry that you should be obliged to share the poverty of the land. It would have given me much pleasure could I have set before you a more comfortable meal." " Ohj don't mention it. So that I get good pork and pota- toes I shall be contented." ^ What did these words imply ? — an extension of his visit ? I hoped that I was mistaken ; but before I could lose any time in conjecture my husband awoke. The fit had left him, and he rose and dressed himself, and was soon chatting cheerfully with his guest. Mr. Malcolm now informed him that he was hiding from the sheriff of the N district's oflRcers, and that it would be conferring upon hinx a great favour if he would allow him to remain at his house for a few weeks. " To tell you the truth, Malcolm," said Moodie, " we are so badly oflT that we can scarcely find food for ourselves and the children. It is out of our power to make you comfortable, or to keep an additional hand, without he is willing to render some little help on the farm. If you can do this, I will en- deavour to get a few necessaries on credit, to make your stay more agreeable." To this proposition Malcolm readily assented, not only VOL. II. 5* 106 ROUGHIN'} IT IN THE BUSU. lit Mil * ^'i f\ it oecause it released him from all sei se of obligation, but boi cause it gave him a privilege to grumble. Finding that his stay might extend to an indefinite period, I got Jacob to construct a rude bedstead out of two large chests that had transported some of our goods across the At- lantic, and which he put up in a corner of the parlour. This I provided with a small hair-mattress, and furnished with what bedding I could spare. For the first fortnight of his sojourn, our guest did nothing but lie upon that bed, and read, and smoke, and drink whls. key and water from morning until night. By degrees he let out part of his history ; but there was a mystery about him which he took good care never to clear up. He was the son of an officer in the navy, wno had not only attained a very high rank in the service, but, fcr his gallant conduct, had been made a Knight-Companiftn of the Bath. He had himself served his time as a midshipman onboard his father's flag-ship, but had left the navy and accepted a commission in the Buenos-Ayrean service during the political struggles in that province ; he had commanded a sort of pri- vateer under the government, to whom, by his own account, he had rendered many very signal services. Why he left South America and came to Canada he kept a profound secret. He had indulged in very vicious and dissipated courses since he came to the province, and by his own account had spent upwards of four thousand pounds, in a manner not over cred- itable to himself. Finding that his friends would answer his bills no longer, he took possession of a grant of larid obtained through his father's interest, up in Hersey, a barren township on the shores of Stony Lake ; and, after putting up his shanty, and expending all his remaining means, he found that he did not possess one acre out of the whole four hundred that would yield a crop of potatoes. He was now considerably in debt^ 1 THE LITTLE STUMPY MAN. lOT and the lands, such as they were, had been seized, with all hi«i eflects, by the sheriff, and a warrant was out for his own ap- prehension, which he contrived to elude during his sojourn with us. Money he had none ; and, beyond the dirty fear- nought blue seaman's jacket which he wore, a pair of trowsera of the coarse cloth of the country, an old black vest that had seen better days, and two blue-checked shirts, clothes he had none. He shaved but once a week, never combed his hair, and never washed himself. A dirtier or more slovenly crea- ture never before was dignified by the title of a gentleman. He was, however, a man of good education, of excellent abilities, and possessed a bitter, sarcastic knowledge of the world ; but he was selfish and unprincipled in the Wghest degree. His shrewd observations and great conversational powere had first attracted my husband's attention, and, as men seldom show their bad qualities on a journey, he thought him a blunt, good fellow, who had travelled a great deal, and could render himself a very agreeable companion by a graphic relation of his adventures. He could be all this, when he chose to relax from his sullen, morose mood ; and, much as I disliked him, I have listened with interest for hours to his droll descriptions of South American life and manners. Naturally indolent, and a constitutional grumbler, it was with the greatest difficulty that Moodie could get him to do any thing beyond bringing a few pails of water from the swamp for the use of the house, and he has often passed rne carrying water up from the lake without offering to relieve me of the burden, Mary, the betrothed of Jacob, called him a perfect beast ; but he, returning good for evil, considered her a very pretty girl, and paid her so many uncouth atten- tions that he roused the jealousy of honest Jake, who vowed that he would give him a good " loomping" if he only dared r 108 ROUOrnXO IT IN THE BUSH. !'■ ' to lay a finger upon his sweetheart. With Jacob to back her, Mary treated the " zea-bear," as .Tacob termed hi ni, with \'ah\ disdain, and was so saucy to him that, forgetting his admira- tion, he declared he would like to serve her as the Indians had done a scolding woman in South America. They at tacked her house during the absence of her husband, cut out her tongue, and nailed it to the door, by way of knocker ; and he thought that all women who could not keep a civil tongue in their head should be served in the same manner. " And what should be done to men who swear and use on- dacent language f quoth Mary, indignantly. " Their tongues should be slit, and given to the dogs. Faugh ! You are such a nasty fellow that I don't think Hector would eat your tongue." "I'll kill that beast," muttered Malcolm, as he walked away. I remonstrated with him on the iir* propriety of bandying words with our servants. " You see," I said, " the disrespect with which they treat you ; and if they presume upon your fa- miliarity, to speak to our guest in this contemptuous manner, they will soon extend the same conduct to us." " But, Mrs. Moodie, you should reprove them." " I cannot, sir, while you continue, by taking liberties with the girl, and swearing at the man, to provoke them to retali- ation." " Swearing ! What harm is there in swearing 1 A sailor cannot live without oaths." " But a gentleman might. Mr. Malcolm. I should be sorry to consider you in any other light." " Ah, you are such a prude — so methodistical — you make no allowance for circumstances ! Surely, in the woods we may dispense with the hypocritical, conventional forms of society, and speak and act as we please." L 1 THE LITTLE STUMPY MAN. 109 " So you seem to think ; but you see the result." " I have never been used to the society of ladies, and . cannot fashion my words to please them ; and I won't, vhat'a more !" he muttered to himself, as he strode off to Moodie in the field. I wished from my very heart that he was once more on the deck of his piratical South American craft. One night he insisted on going out in the canoe to spear muskinpnge with Moodie. The evening turned out very chill and foggy, and, before twelve, they returned, with only one fish, and half frozen with cold. Malcolm had got twinges of rheumatism, and he fussed, and sulked, and swore, and quar- relled with every body and every thing, until Moodie, who was highly amused by his petulance, advised him to go to his bed, and pray for the happy restoration of his temper. " Temper !" he cried, " I don't believe there's a good-tem- pered person m the world. It's all hypocrisy ! I never had a good temper ! My mother was an ill-tempered woman, and ruled my father, who was a confoundedly severe, domineering man. I was bora in an 111 temper. I was an ill-tempered child ; I grew up an ill-tempered man. I feel worse than ill tempered now, and when I die it will be in an illtemper." " Well," quoth I, " Moodie has made you a tumbler of hot punch, which may help to drive out the cold and the ill temper, and cure the rheumatism." *' Ay ; your husband's a good fellow, and worth two of you, Mrs. Moodie. He makes some allowance for the weak- ness of human nature, and can excuse even my ill temper.'* 1 did not choose to bandy words with him, and the next day the unfortunate creature was shaking ■wliii Jke ague. A more intractable, outrageous, zm-patient I never had the ill fortune to nurse. During the cold fit, he did nothing but swear at the cold, and wished himself roasting ; and during the fever, he swore at the heat, and wished that he was sitting, 110 ROUOUING IT IS THE RUSH. -i y in no other garment than his shirt, on the north side of an ice- berg. And when the fit at last loft him, he got up, and ate such quantities of fat pork, and drank so much whiskey- punch, that you would have imagined he had just arrived from a long journey, and had not tasted food for a couple of days. He would not believe that fishing in the cold night-air upon the water had made him ill, but raved that it was al' my fault for having laid my baby down on his bed while it was» shaking with the ague. Yet, if there were the least tenderness mixed up in his iroi. nature, it was the affection he displayed for that young child. Dunbar was just twenty months old, with bright, dark eyes, dimpled cheeks, and soft, flowing, golden hair, which fell round his infant face in rich curls. The merry, confiding little creature formed such a contrast to his own surly, unyielding temper, that, perhaps, that very circumstance made the bond of union between them. When in the hou«e, t./. kittle boy was seldom out of his arms, and whatever were Malcolm's faults, he had none in the eyes of the child, who used to cling around his neck, and kiss his rough, unshaven cheeks with the greatest fondness. " If I could afford it, Moodie," he said one day to my hus- band, " I should like to marry. I want some one upon whom I could vent my affections." And wanting that some one in the ^">rm of woman, he contented himself with venting them apon the child. As the spring advanced, and after Jacob left us, he seemed ashamed of sitting in the house doing nothing, and therefore undertook to make us a garden, or " to make garden," as the Canadians term preparing a few vegetables for the season I procured the necessary seeds, and watched with no small surprise the industry with which our strange visitor com T THE LITTLE STUifPV MAN. HI menced operations. lie repaired the brolcen fence., dug the ground with the greatest care, and laid it out with a skill and neatness of which I had believed him perfectly incapable. In less than three weeks, the whole plot presented a very pleas- ing prospect, and he was really elated by his success. " At any rate," said he, " we shall no longer be starved ox bad flour and potatoes. We shall have peas, and beans, and beets, and carrots, and cabbage in abundance ; besides tho plot I have reserved for cucumbers and melons." " Ah," thought I, " does he, indeed, mean to stay with us until the melons are ripe 1" and my heart died within me, for he not only was a great additional expense, but lie gave a great deal of additional trouble, and entirely robbed us of all privacy, as our very parlour was converted into a bedroom for his accommodation ; besides that, a man of his singularly dirty habits made a very disagreeable inmate. The only redeeming point in his character, in my eyes, was his love for Dunbar. I could not entirely hate a man who was so fondly attached to my child. To the two little girls he was very cross, and often chased them from him with Hows. He had, too, an odious way of finding fault with every thing. I never could cook to please him ; and he tried in the most malicious way to induce Moodie to join in his complaints. All his schemes to make strife between us, how- ever, failed, and were generally visited upon himself. In no way did ne ever seek to render me the least assistance. Shortly after Jacob left us, Mary Price was offered higher wages by a family at Peterborough, and for some time I was left with four little children, and without a servant. Moodie always milked the cows, because I never could overcome my fear of cattle ; and though I had occasionally milked when there was no one else in the way, it was ir. fear and trembling. Moodie had to go down to Peterborough ; but before he /' r# ■ K-- ■ fe-. ^' il2 ROUGHING IT IN THE BUHII !iK- a went, he begged Malcolm to bring me what water and woo(^ I required, and to stand by the cattle while I milked the cows, and he would himself be home before night. lie started at six m the morning, and I got the pail to go and milk. Mai- colm was lying upon his bed, reading. " Mr. Malcolm, will you be so kind as to go with me to *he fields for a few minutes while I milk T "Yes !" (then, with a sulky frown,) "but I want to finish what I am reading." " I will not detain you long." " Oh, no ! I suppose about an hour. You are a shocking bad milker." "True; I never went near a cow until I came to this country ; and 1 have never been able to overcome my fear of them." " More shame for you ! A farmer's wife, and afraid of a cow ! Why, these little children would laugh at you." I did not reply, nor would I ask him again. I walked slowly to the field, and my indignation made me forget my fear. I had just finished milking, and with a brimming pail was preparing to climb the fence and return to the house, when a very wild ox we had came running with headlong speed from the wood. All my fears were alive again in a moment. I snatched up the pail, and, instead of climbing the fence and getting to tl b house, I ran with all the speed I could command down the steep hill towards the lake shore , my feet caught in a root of the many tumps in the path, and I fell to the ground, my pail rolling many yards ahead of me. Every drop of my milk was spilt upon the grass. The ox passed on. I gathered myself up and leturnecl home. Mai- colm was very fond of new milk, anvi )m» ca.ii<=' .V n^^y «>^ V« thfc door. " Hi ! hi !— Where's the mill* T \ 7ITE LITTLE STUMPY MAN. 113 " No milk for the poor children to-day," said I, showing nim the inside of the piiii, with a sorrowful shake of the head, for it was no small loss to them and mo. " How the devil's that \ So you were afraid to milk the cows. Come away, and I will keep ofl' the buggabooa." "I did milk them — no thanks to your kindness, Mr. Mal- colm — but — " "But what r " The ox frightened me, and I fell and spilt all the milk." "Whew! Now don't go and tell your husband that it was all my fault ; if you had had a little patience, I would have come when you asked me, but I don't choose to be dic- tated to, and I won't be made a slave by you or any one else." " Then why do you stay, sir, where you consider yourself so treated "?" said I. " We are all obliged to work to obtain bread ; we give you the best share — surely the return we ask for it is but small." "You make me feel my obligations to you when you ask me to do any thing ; if you left it to my better feelings we should get on better." " Perhaps you are right. I will never ask you to do any thing for me in future," " Oh, now, that's all mock humility. In spite of the tears in your eyes, you are as angry with me as ever ; but don't go to make mischief between me and Moodie. If you'll say nothing about my refusing to go with you, I'll milk the cows for you myself to-night." " And can you milk ?" said I, v ith some curiosity. "Milk! Yes; and if I were not so confoundedly low- spirited and lazy, I could do a thousand other things too But now, don't say a word about it to Moodie." I made no pro'i jse ; but my respect for him wa3 not ift 114 ROUOIUNO IT IN THE liUsn. 4 ■ r i creased by his cowardly fear of reproof from Moodie, Mhc treated hliii with a kindness and consideration which ho did not deserve. The afternoon turned out very wet, and I was sorry that I should bo troubled with his company all day in tho house. I was making a shirt for Moodie from aomo cotton that had boon sent nie from home, and ho placed him- self by tho side of tlie stove, just op[)osite, and continued tc regard me for a long time with his usual sullen stare. I really felt half afraid of him. " Don't you think me mad ?" said he. " I have a brother derang^id ; he got a stroke of the sun in India, and lost his senses in consequence ; but sometimes I think it runs in the family." What answer could I give to this speech, but mere evasive nommonplace ] " You won't say what you really think," he continued ; "I know you hate me, and that makes me dislike you. Now what would you say if I told you I had committed a murder, and that it was the recollection of that circumstance that made me at times so restless and unhappy ?" I looked up in his face, not knowing what to believe. " 'Tis fact," said he, nodding his head ; and I hoped that he would not go mad, like his brother, and kill me. " Come, I'll tell you all about it ; I know the world would laugh at me for calling such an act murder ; and yet 1 have been such a miserable man ever since, that I feel it was. "There was a noted leader among the rebel Buenog. Ayreans, whom the government wanted much to get hold of. lie was a fine, dashing, handsome fellow ; I had often seeu him, but we never came to close quarters. One night, I was lying wrapped up in my poncho at the bott^, n of my boat, which was rocking in the surf, waiting for two of my men, who were gone on shore. There came to the shore, this man ( !i_' THE LITTLE STUMPY JfAX Hi that roiild have tenoa* [id of. seeu II vras boat, men, man and one of his people, and they stood so near the boat, which 1 suppose they thought empty, that I could distinctly hear their con versa I ion. 1 sui)pose it was the devil who tomi)tvd me to put a bullet through that man's heart. lie was an enemy to the flag under which I fought, but he was no enemy to me — I liad no right to become his executioner ; but still the desire to kill him, for the mere deviltry of the thing, came 80 sirongly upon me that I no longer tried to resist it. I roso slowly upon my knees ; the moon was shining very bright at the time, both he and his companion were Ux* earnestly engaged to see me, and I deliberately shot him through the body. He fell with a heavy groan back into the water ; but I caught the last look he threw up to the moonlight skies be- fore his eyes glazed in death. Oh, that look ! — so full of despair, of unutterable anguish ; it haunts me yet — it will haunt me for ever. I would not have cared if I had killed him in strife — but in cold blood, and he so unsuspicious of his doom ! Yes, it was murder ; I know by this constant tugging at my heart that it was murder. What do you say to it?" " I should think as you do, Mr. Malcolm. It is a terrible thing to take away the life of a fellow-creature without the least provocation." "Ah ! I knew you would blame me ; but he was an enemy after all ; I had a right to kill him ; I was hired by the gov- ernment under whom I served to kill him : and who shall condemn me V " No one more than your own heart." " It is not the heart, but the brain, that must decide ui questions of right and wrong," said he. " I acted from im- pulse, and shot the man ; had I reasoned upon it for five minutes, that man would be living now. But what's don«? cannot be undone. j)id 1 ever show you the work I wrot« upuii ^5outh America?" r^ 116 ROUGHING IT IN THE BUtiH. ■}\\ >?" t~ " Are you an author," said I, incredulously. "To be sure I am. Murray offered me £100 for my manuscript, but I would not take it. Shall I read to you some passages from it ?" I am sorry to say that his behaviour in the morning was uppermost in my thoughts, and I had no repugnance m re- fusing. " No, don't trouble yourself. I have the dinner to cook, and the children to attend to, which will cause a constant in- terruption ; you had better defer it to some other time." " I shan't ask you to listen to me again," said he, with a look of offended vanity ; but he went to his trunk, and brought out a large MS., written on foolscap, which he commenced reading to himself with an air of great selt importance, glancing from time to tim3 at me, and smiling disdainfully. Oh, how glad I was when the door opened, and the return of Moodie broke up this painful tete-a-tete. From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step. The very next day, Mr. Malcolm made his appearance before me wrapped in a great-coat belonging to my husband, which literally came down to his heels. At this strange apparition, I fell a-laughing. " For God's sake, Mrs. Moodie, lend me a pair of inex- pressibles. I have met with an accident in crossing the fence, and mine are torn to shreds — gone to the devil entirely." " Well, don't swear. I'll see what can be done for you.*' I brought him a new pair of fine, drab-coloured kerseymere trowsers that had never been worn. Although he was elo quent in his thanks, I had no idea that he meant to keep thei for his sole individual use from that day thencefofth. Bjf after all, what was the man to do % He had no tro<^tf vith a ;, and ch he t self- miling id, and The ,re me. which arition, )f inex- e fence, y." you." eymere vas elo p thei h. Bdt lers, and ^rtainlj rsed r.t^: The season for putting in the potatoes had now arrived. Malcolm volunteered to cut the sets, which was easy work that could be done in the house, and over which he could lounge and smoke ; but Moodie told him that he must take his share in the field, that I had already sets enough saved tc plant half-an-acre, and would have more prepared by the time they were required. With many growls and shrugs, he felt obliged to comply ; and he performed his part pretty well, the execrations bestowed upon the mosquitoes and black-flies forming a sort of safety-valve to let off the concentrated venom of his temper. When he came in to dinner, he held out his hands to me. " Look at these hands." " They are blistered with the hoe." " Look at my face." " You are terribly disfigured by the black-flies. But Moodie suffers just as much, and says nothing." "Bah! — ^The only consolat.on one feels for such annoy- ances is to complain. Oh, the woods ! — the cursed woods ! — how I wish I were out of them." The day was very warm, but in the afternoon I w is surprised by a visit from an old maiden lady, a friend of mine from C . She had walked up with a Mr. Crowe, from Peterborough, a young, brisk- looking farmer, in breeches and top-boots, just out from the old country, who, naturally enough, thought he would like to roost among the woods. He was a little, lively, good-natured manny, ^vith a real Anglo-Saxon face, — rosy, high check-boned, with full lips, and a turned-up nose ; and, like most little men, was a great talker, and very full of himself. He had belonged to the secondary class of farmers, and was very vulgar, both in person and manners. I had just prepared tea for my visitors, when Malcolm and Moodie returned from the field. ITitro 1/ 118 HOUOHL\0 IT IN THE BITSH. I, was no affectation about the former. He was manly m hii person, and blunt even to rudeness, and I saw by the quizzical look which he cast upon the spruce lit':le Crowe that he was quietly quizzing him from head to heel. A neighbour had sent me a present of maple mola-^ses, and Mr. Crowe was so fearful of spilling some of the rich syrup upon his drab shorts that he spread a large pocket-handkerchief over his knees, and tucked another under his chin. I felt very much inclined to laugh, but restrained the inclination as well as I could — and if the little creature would have sat still, 1 could have quelled my rebellious propensity altogether; but up he would jump at every word I said to him, and make me a low, jerking bow, often with his mouth quite full, and the treacherous molasses running over his chin. Malcolm sat directly opposite to me and my volatile next- door neighbour. Ho saw the intense d '>;<•• ilty 1 had to keep my gravity, and was determined to m'\ki\ r-ie laugh out. So, coming slyly behind my chair, he whispered in my ear, with the gravity of a judge, " Mrs. Moodie, that must have been the very chap who first jumped Jim Crowe." This appeal obliged me to run from the table. Moodie was astonished at my rudeness ; and Malcolm, as he resumed his seat, made the matter worse by saying, '' I wonder what is the matter with Mrs. Moodie ; she is certainly very hys- terical this afternoon." The potatoes were planted, and the season of strawber- ries, green peas, and young potatoes come, but still Malcolm remained our constant guest. He had grown so indolent, and gave himself so many airs, that Moodie was heartily sick of his company, and gave him many gentle hints to change his quarters ; but our guest was determined to take no hint. For some reason best known to himself, perhaps out of sheer con- tradiction, which formed one great element in his character, THE LITTLE STUMPY JJ.tX. UH been he seemed obstinately bent upon remaining where he vras, Moodie was busy under-bushing for a full fallow. Malcolm spent much of his time in the garden, or lounging about the house. I had baked an eel-pie for dinner, which if prepared well is by no means an uasavoury dish. Malcolm had cleaned some green peas, and washed the first young potatoes we had drawn that season, with his own hands, and he was reckoning upon the feast he should have on the potatoes with childish glee. The dinner at length was put upon the table. The vegetables were remarkably fine, and the pie looked very nice. Moodie helped Malcolm, as he always did, very largely, and the other covered his plate with a portion of peas and potatoes, when, lo and behold ! my gentleman began making a very wry face at the pie. " What an infernal dish !" he cried, pushing away his plate with an air of great disgust. " These eels taste as if they had been stewed in oil. Moodie, you should teach your wife to be a better cook." The hot blood burnt upon Moodie's cheek. I saw indigna- tion blazing in his eye. " If you don't like what is prepared for you, sir, you may leave the table, and my house, if you please. I will put up with your ungentlemanly and ungrateful conduct to Mrs, Moodie no longer." Out stalked the offending party. I thought, to be sure, we had got rid of him ; and though he deserved what was said to him, I was sorry for him. Moodie took his dinner, quietly remarking, " I wonder he could find it in his heart to leave those fine peas and potatoes." He then went back to his work in the bush, and I cleared flway the dishes, and churned, for I wanted butter for tea. About four o'clock, Mr. Malcolm entered the room. " Mra» r> I 1 ; 1 1' j 1 u, ii iU Ki If • 'i % 1 i i'1 E:. ■1 i ii 1 1 P'' ! 1^^*'' ' ■ in fe' ^' -1 -; ' ■ 11 ;r, ■•• -Ii i;^ ii n f v' i iH ■■ i ■ ■ ' ■t^H r ' i; ■■ fl '*> n: 130 BOCro/IJAtf IT LV TllK BUSH. Moodie," said ht, in a more cheerful voice than usual, "where's the boss?" "In the wood, under-bushirg." I felt dreadfully afraid that there would be blows between them. " I hope, Mr. Malcolm, tluV you are not going to him with any intention of a fresh quarrel." " Don't you think I have been punished enough by losing my dinner V said he, with a grin. " I don't think we shall murder one another." He shouldered his axe, and went whist- ling away. After striving for a long while to stifle my foolish fears, I took the baby in my arms, and little Dunbar by the hand and ran up to the bush where Moodie was at work. At first I only saw my husband, but the strokes of an axe at a little distance soon guided my eyes to the spot where Malcolm was working away, as if for dear life. Moodie smiled, and looked at me significantly. "How could the fellow stomach what I said to him? Either great necessity or great meanness must be the cause of his knocking under. I do^i't know whether most to pity or despise him." " Put up with it, dearest, for thii^ once. He is not happy, and must be greatly distressed." Malcolm kept aloof, ever and anon casting a furtive glance towards us ; at last little Dunbar ran to him, and held up his arms to be kissed. The strange man snatched him to his bosom, and covered him with caresses. It might be love to the child that had quelled his sullen spirit, or he might really have cherished an affection for us deeper than his ugly temper would allow him to show. At all events, he joined us at tea as if nothing had happened, and we might truly say that he had obtained a new lease of his long vis't. But what could not be effected by words or hints of ours was brought about a few FHS LITTLE STUMP y MAK. 12) ' where's y afraid lim with ►y losing we shall nt whist- 1 fears, I tie hand f an axe ot where Moodic to him? tie cause 3 pity or •t happy, '■e glance Id up his n to his love to ht really yr temper us at tea at he had d not be >ut a few J days after by the silly observation of a child. He asked Katie to give him a kiss, and he would gi^e her some raspberries he had gathered in the bush, " I don't want them. Go awi^y ; I don't like you, you lit tie stumpy man /" His rage knew no bounds. He pushed the child from him, and vowed that he would leave the house that moment that she could not have thought of such an expression herself; she must have been taught it by uy. This was an entire mis- conception on his part ; but he would not be convinced that he was wrong. Off he went, and Moodie called after him, " Malcolm, as I am sending to Peterborough to-morrow, the man shall take in your trunk." He was too angry even to turn and bid us good-bye ; but we had not seen the last of him yet. Two months after, we were taking tea with a neighbour, who lived a mile below us on the small lake. Who should walk in but Mr. Malcolm ? He greeted us with great warmth for him, and when we rose to take leave, he rose and walked home by our side. "Surely the Uttle stumpy man is not returning to his old quarters ?" I am still a babe in the affairs of men. Human nature has more strange va- rieties than any one menagerie can contam, and Malcolm was one of the oddest of her odd species. That night he slept in his old bed below the parlour win- dow, and for three months afterwards he stuck to us like a beaver. He seemed to have grown more kindly, or we had got more used to his eccentricities, and let him have his own way ; certainly he behaved himself much better. He neither scolded the children nor interfered with the maid, nor quar- relled with me. He had greatly discontinued his bad habit of swearing, and he talked of himself and his future prospects with more hope and self-respect. His father had promised to !«end him a fresh supply of money, and he proposed to huv VOL. II, 6 1-vV', 122 ROTJaHINQ IT IN THE BUSK of Moodie the clergy reserve, and that they should farm the two places on shares. This offer was received with great joy, as an unlooked-for means of paying our debts, and ex- tricating ourselves from present and overwhelming difficulties, and we looked upon the little stumpy man in the light of a benefactor. So matters continued until Christmas-eve, when our visitor proposed walking into Peterborough, in order to give the children a treat of raisins to make a Christmas pudding. " We will be quite merry to-morrow," he said. " I hope we shall eat many Christmas dinners together, and continue good friends." He started, after breakfast, with the promise of coming back at night ; but night came, the Christmas passed away, months and years fled away, but we never saw the little stumpy man again ! He went away that day with a stranger in a Avagon from Peterborough, and never afterwards was seen in that part of Canada. We afterwards learned that he v/ent to Texas, and it is thought that he was killed at St. Antonio ; but this is mer? oonjecture. Whether dead or living, I feel convinced that ^ We ne'er shall look upon his lik^ agwji. n THE FIHE, 123 irrA the h great and ex- Acuities, ^ht of a len our • to give idding. ■' I hope continue coming :d away, the little ^on from t part of IS, and it 3 is mer?. Ithat ViiAi'Tlfll* VliS. THE FIRE. rpHE early part of the winter of 1837, a year never to be -L forgotten in the annals of Canadian history, was very se- vere. During the month of February, the thermometer often ranged from eighteen to twenty-seven degrees below zero. Speaking of the coldness of one particular day, a genuine Bro- ther Jonathan remarked, with charming simplicity, that it was thirty degrees below zero that morning, and it would have been much colder if the thermometer had been longer. The morning of the seventh was so intensely cold that every thing liquid froze in the house. The wood that had been drawn for the fire was green, and it ignited too slowly to satisfy the shivering impatience of women and children; I vented mine in audibly grumbling over the wretched fire, at which I in vain endeavoured to thaw frozen bread, and to dress crying children. It so happened that an old friend, the maiden lady before alluded to, had been staying with us for a few days. She had left us for a visit to my sister, and as some relatives of hers were about to return to Britain by the way of New York, and had offered to convey letters to friends at home, I had been busy all the day before preparing a packet for England. It was my intention to walk to my sister's with this packet, di rectly the important affair of breakfast had been discussed , but the extreme cold of the morning had occasioned such \24 HOUaUINQ IT IN THE hUSH ■j^ delay that it was late before the breakfast-things were cleared away. After dressing, I found the air so keen that I could not venture out without some risk to my nose, and my husband kindly volunteered to go in my stead. I had hired a young Irish girl the day before. Her friends were only just located in our vicinity, and she had never seen a stove until she came to our house. After Moodie left, I suffered the fire to die away in the Franklin stove in the parlour, and went into the kitchen to prepare bread for the oven. The girl, who was a good-natured creature, had heard me complain bitterly of the cold, and the impossibility of getting the green wood to burn, and she thought that she would see if she could not make a good fire for me and the children, against my work was done. Without saying one word about her intention, she slipped out through a door that opened from the parlour into the garden, ran round to the wood-yard, filled her lap with cedar chips, and, not knowing the nature of the stove, filled it entirely with the light wood. Before I had the least idea of my danger, I was aroused from the completion of my task by the crackling and roaring of 11 large fire, and a suffocating smell of burning soot. I looked up at the kitchen cooking-stove. All was right there. I knew I had left no fire in the parlour stove ; but not being able to account for the smoke and smell of burning, I opened the door, and to my dismay found the stove red hot, from the front plate to the topmost pipe that let out the smoke through the roof. My first impulse was to plunge a blanket, snatched from the servant's bed, which scood in the kitchen, into coM water. This I thrust into the stove, and upon it I threw water, until all was cool below. I then ran up to the loft, and by exhaust, mg all the water in the house, even to that contained in the " I 11 j ! THE FIRE. 125 boileis upon the fire, contrived to cool down the pipes which passed through the loft. I then sent the girl out of doors to look at the roof, which, as a very deep fall of snow had taken place the day before, I hoped would he completely covered, and safe from all danger of fire. She quickly returned, stamping and tearing her hair, and making a variety of uncouth outcries, from which I gathered that the roof was in flames. This was terrible news, with my husband absent, no man in the house, and a mile and a quarter from any other habita- tion. i ran out to ascertain the extent of the misfortune, and found a large fire burning in the roof between the two stone pipes. The heat of the fires had melted off all the snow, and a spark from the burning pipe had already ignited the shingles. A ladder, which for several months had stood against the house, had been moved two days before to the barn, which was at the top of the hill, near the road ; there was no reach- ing the fire through that source. I got out the dinlng-table, and tried to throw water upon the roof by standing on a chair placed upon it, but I only expended the little water that re- mained in the boiler, without reaching the fire. The girl still continued weeping and lamenting. " You must go for help," I said. " Run as fast as you can to my sister's, and fetch your master." " And lave you, ma'arm, and the childher alone wid the burnin' house f " Yes, yes ! Don't stay one moment." " I have no shoes, ma'arm, and the snow is so deep." " Put on your master's boots ; make haste, or we shall be lost before help comes." The girl put on the boots and started, shrieking " Fire !" the whole way. This was utterly useless, and only impeded her progress by exhausting hor strength. After she had van* 1' I I il fl r 126 ROUOIIINO IT IN THE BUSH, ished from the head of the clearing into the wood, and I was left quite alone, with the house burning over my head, I paused one moment to reflect what had best be done. The house was built of cedar logs; in all probability if, would be consumed before any help could arrive. There was a brisk breeze blowing up from the frozen lake, and the thermometer stood at eighteen degrees below zero. We were placed between the two extremes of heat and cold, and there was as much danger to be apprehended from the one as the other. In the bewilderment of the moment, the direful ex- tent of the calamity never struck me : we wanted but this to put the finishing stroke to our misfortunes, to be thrown naked, houseless, and penniless, upon the world. " What shall I save first f was the thought just then uppermost in my mind. Bedding and clothing appeared the most essentially necessary, and without another moment's pause, I set to wcrk with a right good will to drag all that I could from my burning home. While little Agnes, Dunbar, and baby Donald filled the air with their cries, Katie, as if fully conscious of the impor- tance of exertion, assisted me in carrying out sheet 3 and blan- kets, and dragging trunks and boxes some way up the hill, to be out of 'he way of the burning brands when the roof should fall in. How many anxious looks I gave to the head of the clearing as the fire increased, and large pieces of burning pine began to fall through the boarded ceilmg, about the lower rooms where we were at work. The children I had k*»pt under a large dresser in the kitchen, but it now appeared absolutely necessary to remove them to a place of safety. To expose the young, tender things to the direful cold was almost as bad as leaving them to the mercy of the fire. At last I h*f- upon a plan to keep them from fi-erzing. I (Muptied all llie clothes THE FIRE. 127 out of tt large, deep ehost of drawers, and dragged the einpf,_v drawers up the hill ; these I lined with blankets, and placed a child in each drawer, covering it well over with the bedding giving to little Agnes ihe charge of the baby to hold betwe«'n her knees, and keep well covered until help should arrive. Ah, how long it seemed wining ! The roof was now burning like a brush-heap, and, uncon- sciously, the child and I were working under a shelf, upon which were deposited several pounds of gunpowder which had been procured for blasting a w^ell, as all our water had to be brought up-hill from the lake. Tliis gunpowder was in a stone jar, secured by a paper stopper ; the shelf upon which it stood was on fire, but it was utterly forgotten by me at the time ; and even afterwards, when my husband was working on the burning loft over it. I found that I should not be able to take many more trips for goods. As I passed out of the parlour for the last time, Katie looked up at her father's flute, which was suspended upon two brackets, and said, " Oh, dear mamma ! do save papa's flute ; he will be st» sorry to lose it." God bless the dear child for the thought ! the flute was saved ; and, as I succeeded in dragging out a heavy chest of clothes, and looked up once more despairingly to the road, I saw a man running at full speed. It was my husband. Help was at hand, and my heart uttered a deep thanksgiving aw another and another figure came upon the scene. I had not felt the intense cold, although without cap, or bonnet, or shawl ; with my hands bai-e and exposed to the Wtter, biting air. The intense excitement, the anxiety to fuive ■11 I could, had so totally diverted my thoughts from myself, that I had felt nothing of the danger to which I had been exposed; but now tbai help was near, my knees trembled .u 128 ROUOmNG IT IN THE BUSH under me, I fult giddy and faint, and dark shadows sccmod dancing before my eyes. The moment my hus})and and brother-in-luw entered thfc house, the latter exclaimed, " Aloodie, the house is gone ; save what you can of y©ur winter stf)rcs and furniture." M(K)dic thought differently. Prompt and energetic in dan- ger, and possessing admirable ence of mind and coolness when others yield to agitation and despair, he sprang upon the burning loft and called for water. Alas, there was none ! " Snow, snow ; hand mc up pailfuls of snow !" Oh ! it was bitter work filling those pails with frozen snow ; but Mr. T and I worked at it as fast as we were able. The violence of the fire was greatly checked by covering the boards of the loft with this snow. More help had now arrived. Young B and S had brought the ladder doNV^n with them from the barn, and were already cutting away the burning roof, and flinging the flaming brands into the deep snow. " Mrs. Moodie, have you any pickled meat ?" " We have just killed one of our cows, and salted it for winter stores." " Well, then, fling the beef into the snow, and let us have the brine." This was an admirable plan. Wherever the brine wetted the shingles, the fire turned from it, and concentrated into one spot. But I had not time to watch the brave workers on the roof. I was fast yielding to the effects of over-excitement and fatigue, when my brother's team dashed down the clear- ing, bringing my excellent old friend, Miss B , and the servant-girl. My brother sprang out, carried me back into the house. TUK FIHE. 120 and wrapped me up in one of the lurgo blanket!-, seultercd about. In a few luinutos I was seated with the dear children in the sleigh, and on tlie way to a i)lacc of warir.tli and safety. Katie alone sulVered from the intense cold. The dear little creuturo's feet were severely frozen, but were fortunati'ly re- stored by lier uncle discovering the fact before she ajipruuchcd th fire, and rubbing them well with snow. \\\ the mean while, the friends we had left so actively employed at the house succeeded in getting th(; fire under before it had de- stroyed the walls. The only accident that occurred was to a poor dog, that Moodie had called Snarleyowc. He was struck by a burning brand thrown from the house, and crept under the barn and died. Beyond the damage done to the building, the lo?-; ^f oiir potatoes and two sacks of flour, we had escaped in a manner almost miraculous. This fact shows how much can be done by persons working in union, without bustle and confusion, o** running in Ccach other's way. Here were six men, who, with- out the aid of water, succeeded in saving a building, which, at first sight, almost all of them had deemed past hope, hi after years, when entirely burnt out in a disastrous fire that consumed almost all we were worth in the world, some f<)ur hundred persons were present, with a fire-engine to second their endeavours, yet all was lost. Every person seemed in the way ; and though the fire was discovered immediately after it took place, nothing was done beyond saving some of * the fiirniture. Our party was too large to be billetted upon one family. Mrs. T took compassion upon Moodie, myself, and the babv, while their uncle received the three children to his hos- pitable home. It was some weeks before Moodie succeeded in repairing the roof, the intense cold preventing any one from working in VOL. TI, 6* 130 ROUGHING IT LV THE BUISH. sucli ail exposed situation. The news of ou, fire trayelled fai and wide. I was reported to have done prodigies, and to have saved the greater part of our household goods before help ar- rived. Reduced to plain prose, these prodigies shrink into the simple, and by no means marvellous fact, that during the ex- citement I dragged out chests which, under ordinary circum- stances, I could not have moved ; and that I was unconscious both of the cold and the danger to which I was exposed while working under a burning roof, which, had it fallen, would have buried both the children and myself under its ruins. These circumstances appeared far more alarming, as all real danger does, after they were past. The fright and over exertion gave I my health a shock from m hieh I did not recover for several I months, and made pie so fearful of fire, that from that hour it I haunts me like a nightmare. Let the night be ever so serene, all stoves must be shut up, and the hot embers covered with ashes, before I dare retire to rest ; and the sight of a burning edifice, so common a spectacle in large towns in this country, makes me really ill. This feeling was greatly increased after a second fire, when, for some torturing minutes, a lovely boy, since drowned, was supposed to have perished in the burning house. Our present fire led to a new train of circumstances, for it was the means of introducing to Moodie a young Irish gentle- man, who was staying at my brother's house. John E was one of the best and gentlest of human beings. His fiifcher, a captain in the army, had died while his family were quite young, and had left his widow with scarcely any means be- yond the pension she received a*^ her husband's death, to bring up and educate a family of five children. A handsome, showy woman, Mrs. E soon married again ; and the poor lads were thrown upon th 3 world. The eldest, who had been edu- cated for the Church first came to Canada in the hope of g«» THE FIRE. 131 for it gentle- E flither, s quite ns be- bring showy lads ;n ecl;i- ting some professorship in the college, or of opening a classi- cal school. He was a handsome, gentlemanly, well-educated young man, but constitutionally indolent— a natural defect . which seemed common to all the males of the family, and which was sufficiently indicated by their soft, silky, fair hair and milky complexion. R had the good sense to per- ceive that Canada was not the country for him. He spent a week under our roof, and we v/ere much pleased with his ele- gant tastes and pursuits ; but my husband stro/igly advised him to try and get a situation as a tutor in some family at home. This he afterwards obtained. He became tutor and travelling companion to the young Lord M ; and has since got an excellent living. John, who had followed his brother to Canada without the meai.s of transporting himself back again, was forced to re- main, and was working with Mr. S~ — for his board. He proposed to Moodie working his farm upon shares ; and as we were unable to hire a man, Moodie gladly closed with his offer ; and, during the time he remained with us, we had every reason to be pleased with the arrangement. It was always a humiliating feeling to our proud minds, that hirelings should witness our dreadful struggles with poverty, and the strange shifts we were forced to make in order to obtain even food. But John E had known and experienced all that we had suffered, in his own person, and was willing to share our home with all its privations. Warm-hearted, sincere, and truly affectionate- -a gentleman in word, thought, and deed — we found his society and cheerful help a great comfort. Our odd meals became a subject of merriment, and the peppermint and sage tea drank with a better flavour when we had one who sympathized in all our trials, and shared all our toils, to par- take of it with us. The whole family soon became attached to our young # m fe 1 1 f i' r'! miiiy 182 KOUQUINO IT IN THE BUSH. \ friend ; and after the work of the day was ovei, greatly we enjoyed an hour's fishing on the lake. John E said that we had no right to murmur, as long as we had health, a happy home, and plenty of fresh fish, milk, and potatoes. Early in May, we received an old Irishwoman into our service, who for four years proved a most faithful and industrious creature. And what with John E to assist my husband on the farm, and old Jenny to help me to nurse the children, and manage the house, our affairs, if they were no better in a pecuniary point of view, at least presented a more pleasing aspect at home. We were always cheerful, and sometimes contented and even happy. Plow great was the contrast between the character of our new inmate and that of Mr. Malcolm ! The sufferings of the past year had been greatly increased by the intolerable nui- sance of his company, while many additional debts had been contracted in order to obtain luxuries for him which we never dreamed of purchasing for ourselves. Instead of increasing my domestic toils, John did all in his power to lessen them ; and it always grieved him to see me iron a shirt, or wash the least article of clothing for him. " You have too much to do already ; I cannot bear to give you the least additional work," he would say. And he generally expressed the greatest satis- faction at my method of managing the house, and preparing our simple fare. The little ones he treated with the most affectionate kindness, and gathered the whole flock about his knees the jrioment he came in to his meals. On a wet day, when no work could be done abroad, Moodie took up his flute, or read aloud to us, while John and I sat down to work. The young emigrant, early cast upon the world and his own resources, was an excellent hand at the needle. He would make or mend a shirt with the greatest precisioir and neatness, ard cut out and manufacture his canvas THE FIRE. 133 trowsers and loose summer-coats with as much adroitness as the most experienced tailor ; dam his socks, and mend his boots and shoes, and often volunteered to assist me in knitting the coarse yarn of the country into socks for the children, while he made them moccasins from the dressed deer-skins that we obtained from the Indians. Scrupulously neat and clean in his person, the only thing which seemed to vn^^a his calm temper was the dirty work of logging; he hated to come in from the field with his person and clothes begrimed with charcoal and smoke. Old Jenny used to laugh at him for not being able to eat his meals w'ithout first washing his hands and face. " Och ! my dear heart, yer too particular intirely ; we've no time in the woods to be clane." She would say to him, \ in answer to his request for soap and a towel, " An' is it soap yer a wantin' ? I tell yer that that same is not to the fore ; bating the throuble of making, it's little soap that the mis- thress can get to wash the clothes for us and the cbUdher, widout yer wastin' it in makin' yer purty skin as white as a leddy's. Do, darlint, go down to the lake and wash there ; that basin is big enough, any how." And John would laugh, and go down to the lake to wash, in order to appease the vrath of the old woman. John had a great dislike to oats, and even regarded with an evil eye our old pet cat. Peppermint, who had taken a great fancy to shar^ his bed and board. " If I tolerate our rwn cat," he would say, " I will not put up with such a nuisance as your friend Emilia sends us in the shape of hex ugly Tom. Why, where in the world do you think I found that beast sleeping las'; night 1" I expressed my ignorance. *' In our potato-pot. Now, you will agree with me that potatoes dressed with cat's hair is not a very nice dish. The ^urnKwammaKsm ' 134 ROUGHING IT IN TEE BUSH. %i ^ I ■A ! i next time I catch Master Tom in the potato-pot, 1 will kill him." " John, you are not in earnest. Mrs. would nevei forgive any injury done to Tom, who is a great favourite." " Let her keep him at home, then. Think of the brute com* ing a mile through the woods to steal from us all he can find, and then sleeping off the effects of his depredations in the potato-pot." I could not help laughing, but I begged John by no means to annoy Emilia by hurting her cat. The next day, while sitting in the parlour at work, I heard a dreadful squall, and rushed to the rescue. John was stand- ing, with a flushed cheek, grasping a large stick m his hand, and Tom was lying dead at his feet. " Oh. the poor cat !" " Yes, I have killed him ; but I am sorry for it now. What will Mrs. say f " She must not know it. I have told you the story of the pig that Jacob killed. You had better bury it with the pig." John was really sorry for having yielded, in a fit of pas- sion, to do so cruel a thing ; yet a few days after he got into a fresh scrape with Mrs. 's animals. The hens were laying, up at the barn. John was very fond of fresh eggs, but some strange dog came daily and sucked the eggs. John had vowed to kill the first dog he found in the act. Mr. had a very fine bull-dog, which he valued very highly ; but with Emilia, Chowder was an especial favourite. Bitterly had she bemoaned the fate of Tom, and many were the inquiries she made of us as to his sudden disappearance. One afternoon John ran into the room. " My dear Mrs. Moodie, what is Mrs. 's dog like 1" " A large bulldog, brindled black and white." ■ THE FIRE. 135 ^ei "Thei., by Jove, I've shot him!" "John, John! you mean me to quarrel m eaniest with my friend. How could you do if?" " "Why, how the deuce should I know her dog from an- other? I caught the big thief in the very act of devouring the eggs from under your sitting hen, and I shot him dead without another thought. But I will bury him, and she will never find it out a bit more than she did who killed the cat." Some time after this, Emilia returned from a visit at P . The first thing she told me was the loss of the dog. She was so vexed at it, she had had him advertised, offering a reward for his recovery. I, of course, was called upon to sympathize with her, which I did with a very bad grace. " I did not like the beas"" I said; "he was cross and fierce, and I was afraid to go up to her house v/hile he was the^e." " Yes ; but to lose him so. It is so provoking ; and him such a valuable animal. I could not tell how deeply she felt the loss. She would give four dollars to find out who had stolen him." How near she came to making the grand discovery the sequel will show. Instead of burying him with the murdered pig and cat, Jolm had scratched a shallow grave in the garden, and con- cealed the dead brute. After tea, Emilia requested to look at the garden ; and I, perfectly unconscious that it contained the remains of the murdered Chowder, led the way. Mrs. , whilst gathering a handful of fine green peas, suddenly stooped, and looking earnestly at the ground, called to me. " Come here, Susanna, and tell me what has been buried here. It looks like the tail of a dog." She might have added, " of my dog." Murder, it seems, will out. By some strange chance, the^ ^r.ive that covered rm I -1 11 Ik ii I I i '■ 1 136 ROUQHINO IT IN THE BUSH. the mortal remains of Chowder had been disturbed, and the black tail of the dog was sticking out. " What can it be V said I, with an air of perfect innocence. *' Shall I call Jenny, and dig it up ?" " Oh, no, my dear ; it has a shocking smell, but it does look very much like Chowder's tail." " Impossible ! How could it come among my peas ?" "True. Besides, I saw Chowder, with my own eyes yesterday, following a team ; and George C hopes to re- cover him for me." " Indeed ! I am glad to hear it. How these mosquitoes sting. Shall we go back to the house ?" While we returned to the house, John, who had overheard the whole conversation, hastily disinterred the body of Chow- der, and placed him in the same mysterious grave with Tom and the pig. Moodie and his friend finished logging-up the eight acres which the former had cleared the previous w inter ; besides putting in a crop of peas and potatoes, and an acre of Indian corn, reserving the fallow for fall wheat ; while we had the promise of a splendid crop of hay off the sixteen acres that had been cleared in 1834. We were all in high spirits, and every thing promised fair, until a very trifling circum- stance again occasioned us much anxiety and trouble, and was the cause of our losing most of our crop. Moodie was asked to attend a bee, which w^as called to construct a corduroy bridge over a very bad piece of road. He and J. E were obliged to go that morning with wheat to the mill, but Moodie lent his yoke of oxen for the work. The driver selected for them at the bee was the brutal M y, a savage Irishman, noted for his ill-treatment of cattle, especially if the animals did not belong to him. He gave one of the oxen such a severe blow over the loins with J i 'i H i. **► TUE FIIiF. la? a handspike that the creature came home perfectly disiibled, just as we wanted his services in the hay -field and hai> vest. Moodie had no money to purchase, or even to hire, a mate for the other ox ; but he and John hoped tha<: by careful at- tendance upon the injured animal he ir\,iit be restored to health in a few days. They convey a him to a deserted clearing, a short distance from the ■ rm, where he would be safe from injury from the res of the cattle ; and early every morning we went in the canoe to carry poor Duke a warm mash, and to watch the progress of his recovery. Ah, ye who revel in this world's wealtii, how little can you realize the importance which we, in our poverty, attached to the life of this valuable animal ! Yes, it even became the subject of prayer, for the bread for ourselves and our little ones depended greatly upon his recovery. We were doomed to disappointment. After nursing him with the greatest at- tention and care for some weeks, the animal grew daily worse, and suffered such intense agony, as he lay groaning upon the ground, unable to rise, that John shot him to put him out of pain. Here, then, were we left without oxen to draw in our hay, or secure our other crops. A neighbour, who had an odd ox, kindly lent us the use of him, when he was not employed on his own farm ; and John and Moodie gave their own work for the occasional loan of a yoke of oxen for a day. But with all these drawbacks, ana in spite of the assistance of old Jenny and myself in the field, a great deal of the produce was damaged before it could be secured. The whole summer we had to labour under this disadvantage. Our neighbours were all too busy to give us any help, and their own teams were employed in saving their crops. Fortunately, the few acres of wheat we had to reap were close to the barn, and we car. i m. I 188 HOUGHINQ IT IN THE BUSU. ried the sheaves thither by hand; old Jenny provhig an invaluable help, both in the harvest and ay field. Still, with all these misfortunes, Providence watched over us in a signal manner. We were never left entirely without food. Like the widow's cruise of oil, our means, though small, were never suffered to cease entirely. We had been for some days without meat, when Moodie came running in for his gun. A great she-bear was in the wheat-field at the edge of the wood, very busily employed in helping to harvest the crop. There was but one bullet, and a charge or two of buck-shot, in the house; but Moodie started to the wood with the single bullet in his gun, followed by a little terrier dog that belonged to John E . Old Jenny was busy at tho wash-tub, but the moment she saw her master running up the clearing, and knew the cause, she left her work, and snatching up the carving-knife, ran after him, that in case the bear should have the best of the fight, she would be there to help " the masther." Fmding her shoes incommode her, she flung them off, in order to run faster. A few minutes after, came the report of the gun, and I heard Moodie halloo to E , who was cutting stakes for a fence in the wood. I hardly thought it possible that he could have killed the bear, but I ran to the door to listen. The children were all excitement, which the sight of the black monster, borne down the clearing upon two poles, increased to the wildest demonstrations of joy. Moodie and John were carrying the prize, and old Jenny, brandishing her carving-knife, followed in the rear. The rest of the evening was spent in skinning and cutting up and salting the ugly creature, whose flesh filled a barrel with excellent meat, in flavour resembling beef, while the short grain and j iicy nature of the flesh gave to it the tender- ness of mutton. This was quite a Godsend, and lasted ms until we were able to kill two large, fat hogs, in the fall. THE FIRE. 139 A few nights after, Moodie and I encountered the mate of Mrs. Bruin, while returning from a visit to Emilia, in the very depth of the wood. We had been invited to meet our friend's father and mother, who had come up on a short visit to the woods ; and the evening passed away so pleasantly that it was near mid- night before the little party of friends separated. The moon was down. The wood, through which we had to return, was very dark ; the ground being low and swampy, and the trees thick and tall. There was, in particular, one very ugly spot, where a small creek crossed the road. This creek could only be passed by foot-passengers scrambling over a fallen tree, A^hich, in a dark night, was not very easy to find. 1 beggod a torch of Mr. M ; but no torch could be found. Emilia laughed at my fears ; still, knowing what a coward I was in the bush of a night, she found up about an inch of candle, which was all that remained from the evening's entertainment. This she put into an old lantern. " It will not last you long ; but it will carry you over the creek." This was something gained, and off we set. It was so dark in the bush, that our dim candle looked like a solitary red spark in the intense surrounding darkness, and scarcely served to show us the path. We went chattuig along, talking over the news of the evening, Hector running on before us. when I saw a parr of eyes glare upon us from the edge of the swamp, with the green, bright light emitt(>il by the eyes of a cat. " Did you see those terrible eyes, Moodie ?" and I clung, trembling, to his arm. "What eyes'?" said he, feigning ignorance. "It's too dark to see any thing. The light is nearly gone, and, if you don't quicken your pare, and cross the trco before it goes f 1 *■ J ^:iM 140 ROUOniNO IT IN THE BUSH. out, you will, perhaps, get your feet wet by falling into the creek." " Good heavens ! I saw them again ; and do just look at the dog." Hector stopped suddenly, and, stretching himself along the groiind, his nose resting between his fore-paws, began to whine and tremble. Presently he ran back to us, and crept under our feet, llie cracking of branches, and the heavy tread of some large a.-imal, sounded close beside us. Moodie turned the open lantern in the direction from whence the sounds camo, and shouted as loud as he could, at the same time endeavouring to urge forward the fear-stricken dog, whose cowardice was only equalled by my own. Just at that critical moment the wick of the candle flick- ered a moment in the socket, and expired. We were left, in perfect darkness, alone with the bear — for such we supposed the animal to be. My heart beat audibly ; a cold perspiration was streaming down my face, but I neither shrieked nor attempted to run. I don't know how Moodie got me over the creek. One of my feet slipped into the water, but, expecting, as I did every moment, to be devoured by master Bruin, that was a thing of no consequence. My husband was laughing at my fears, and every now and then he turned towards our companion, who continued following us at no great distance, and gave him an encouraging shout. Glad enough was I when I saw the gleam of the light from our little cabin window shine out among the trees ; and, the moment I got within the clearing, I ran, without stopping until I was safely within the house. John was sitting up for us, nursing Donald. He listened with great interest to our adventure with the bear, and thought that Bruin was very good to let us escape without one afreetionate hug. '^sA, THE FIRK. 141 at " Perhaps it would have been otherwise had he known, Moodie, that you had not only killed his good lad), but were dining sumptuously off her carcass every day." The bear was determined to have sonuithlng in return for the loss of his wife. Several nights after this, our slumbers were disturbed, about midnight, by an awful yell, and old Jenny shook violently at our chamber door. " Masther, masther, dear ! — Get up wid you this moment, or the bear will desthroy the cattle intirely." Half asleep, Moodie sprang from his bed, seized his gun, and ran out. I threw my largo cloak round me, struck a light, and followed him to the door. The moment the latter was unclosed, some calves that we were rearing rushod into the kitchen, closely followed by the larger beasts, who came bellowing headlong down the hill, pursued by the bear It was a laughable scene, as shown by that paltry tallow- candle. Moodie, in his night-shirt, taking aim at something in the darkness, surrounded by the terrified animals ; old Jenny, with a large knife in her hand, holding on to the white skirts of her masti-r's garment, making outcry loud enough to frighten away all the wild boasts in the bush — herself almost in a state of nudity. " Och, maisther, dear ! don't timpt the ill-conditioned cra- thur wid charging too near; think of the wife and the childher. Let me come at the rampaging baste, an' I'll stick the knife into the heart of him." Moodie fired. The bear retreated up the clearing, with a low growl. Moodie and Jenny pursued him some way, but it was too dark to discern any object at a distance. I, for my part, stood at the open door, laughing until the tears ran down my cheeks, at the glaring eyes of the oxen, their ears erect, and their tails carried gracefully on a level with their backs, fts they stared at me and the light, in blank astonishment. t -. '• 142 jiouanjxa it in tiiI': mrsii. Tho noise of the gun hud just roused Jolin £ from hisi slumbers. He was no less amused than myself, until he saw that a fine yearling heifer was bleeding, and found, upon ex. amination, that the poor animal, having been in the claws of thi bear, was dangerously, if not mortally hurt. " I hope," he cried, " that the brute has not touched my foal !" I pointed to tho blacic face of the filly peeping over the back of an elderly cow. "You see, Jolva, that Bruin preferred veal ; there's your * horsey,' as Dunbar calls her, ^.afe, and laughing at you." Moodie nnd Jenpy now retmnt^d from the pursuit of the bear. L fastened all the cattle into the bach yard, close to the h'Mse. Cv daylight he and Moodio had started in chase of Bruin, whom they tracked by his blood some waj? iento the bush ; but here he entirely escaped their search. 77/A iXTliUKAK. \'VA aw of >iir the ose in CHAPTER IX. THE OUTHREAK. THE long-protracted liar '/est was at length brought to a close. Moodie had procured another ox from Duninicr, by giving a note at six months' date for the payment ; and he and John E were in the middle of sowing their fall crop of wheat, when the latter received a letter from the old country, which conveyed to him intelligence of the death of his mother, and of a legacy of two hundred pounds. It was necessary for him to return to claim the property, and though we felt his loss severely, we could not, without great selfish- ness, urge him to stay. John had formed an attachment to a young lady in the country, who, like himself, possessed no property. Their engagement, which had existed several years, had been dropped, from its utter hopelessness, by mu- tual consent. Still the young people continued to love each other, and to look forward to better days, when their pros- pects might improve so far that E would be able to pur chase a bush farm, and raise a house, however lowly, to shel- ter his Mary. He, like our friend Malcolm, had taken a fancy to buy a part of our block of land, which he could culti vate in partnership with Moodie, without being obliged to hire, when the same barn, cattle, and implements would serve for both. Anxious to free himself from the thraldom of debts which pressed him sore, Moodie offered to part with twc hundred acres at less than th<'-y cost us, and the bargain 144 ROUGHIJUG IT IN THE BVSIL was to be considered as concluded directly the money was forthcoming. It was a sorrowful day when our young friend left us ; he had been a constant inmate in the house for nine months, and not one unpleasant word had ever passed between us. He had rendered our sojourn in the woods more tolerable bj' hia society, and sweetened our bitter lot by his friendship and sympathy. We both regarded him as a brother, and parted with him with sincere regret. As to old Jenny, she lifted up her voice and wept, consigning him to the care and protectior of all the saints in the Irish calendar. For several days aftei John left us, a deep gloom pervaded the house. Our daily toil was performed with less cheerfulness and alacrity ; we missed him at the evening board, and at the evening fire ; and the children asked each day, with increasing earnestness, when dear E would return. Moodie continued sowing liis fall wheat. The task was nearly completed, and the chill October days were fast verg ing upon winter, when towards the evening of one of them he contrived — I know not how — to crawl down from the field at the head of the hill, faint and pale, and in great pain. He had broken the small bone of his leg. In dragging, among the stumps, the heavy machine (which is made in the form of the letter V, and is supplied with large iron teeth) had hitchea upon a stump, and being swung off again by the motion of the oxen, had come with great force against his leg. At first he was struck down, and for some time was unable to rise ; but at length he contrived to unyoke the team, and crawled partly on his hands and knees down the clearing. What a sad, melancholy evening that was ! Fortuiia seemed never tired of playing us some ugly trick. The hope v/hich had so long sustained me seemed about to desert me altogether ; when I saw^ him on whom we all depended for THE OUTBREAK. 145 was ; he and He his and irted up tior aftei Jaily subsistence, and whose kindly voice ever cheered us under the pressure of calamity, smitten down hopeless, all my courage and faith in the goodness of the Divine Father seemed to for- sake me, and I wept long and bitterly. The next morning I went in search of a messenger to send ro Peterborough for the doctor ; but though I found and sent the messenger, the doctor never came. Perhaps he did not iike to incur the expense of a fatiguing journey with small chance of obtaining a sufficient remuneration. Oar dear sufferer contrived, with assistance, to bandage his leg ; and after the first week of rest had expired, he amused himself with making a pair of crutches, and in manu- facturing Indian paddles for the canoe, axe-handles, and yokes for the oxen. It was wonderful with what serenity he bore this unexpected affliction. Buried in the obscurity of those woods, we knew nothing, heard nothing of the political state of the country, and were little aware of the revolution which was about to work a great change for us and for Canada. The weather continued remarkably mild. The first great snow, which for years had ordinarily fallen between the 10th and 15th of November, still kept oflT. November passed on, and as all our firewood had to be chopped by old Jenny du- ring the lameness of my husband, I was truly grateful to God for the continued mildness of the weather. On the 4th of December — that great day of the outbreak — Moodie was de- termined to take advantage of the open state of the lake to carry a large grist up to Y 's mill. I urged upon him the danger of a man attempting to manage a canoe in rapid water, who was unable to stand without crutches ; but Moodie saw that the children would need bread, and he was anxious to make the experiment. Finding that I could not induce him to give up the journey, 1 determined to go with hiin. Old Wittals, who happened to VOL. 11. 7 1^ y\ / 146 BOUGHINO IT IN THE BUSH, I jl': V ^; *i 1 i "■ f. come down that morning, assisted in placing the bags of wheat in the little vessel, and helped to place Moodie at the stern. With a sad, foreboding spirit I assisted to push off from the shore. The air was raw and cold, but our sail was not with- out its pleasure. The lake was very full from the heatvy rains, and the canoe bounded over the waters with a free, springy motion. A sliglit frost had hung every little bush and spray along the shores with sparkling crystals. The red pigeon-ber- ries, shining through their coating of ice, looked like cornelian heads set in silver, and strung from bush to bush. We found the rapids at the entrance of Bessikakoon Lake very hard to stem, and were so often carried back by the force of the water that, cold as the air was, the great exertion which Moodie had to make use of to obtain the desired object., brought the perspi- ration out in big drops upon his forehead. His long confine- ment to the house and low diet had rendered him very weak. The old miller received us in the most hearty and hospita- dIc manner ; and complimented me upon my courage in ven- turing upon the water in such cold, rough weather. Norah was married, but the kind Betty provided us an excellent din- ner, while we waited for the grist to be ground. It was near four o'clock when we started on our return. If there had been danger in going up the stream, there was more in coming down. The wind had changed, the air was frosty, keen, and biting, and Moodie's paddle came up from every dip into the water, loaded with ice. For my part, I liad only to sit still at the bottom of the canoe, as we floated rapidly down with wind and tide. At the landing we were met by old Jenny, who had a long story to tell us, of which we could make neither head nor tail — how some gentleman had called during our absence, and left a large paper, all about the Queen and the Yankees ; that there was war be- tween (Vmadn .ind tho ^t;itos ; iluvt Toronto had been burnt, flt^^ --5^ THE OUTliRKAK, U7 and the governor killed, and I know no what ether sti'ange and monstrous statements. After much fatigue, Moodie elimbed the hill, and we were once more safe by our onmi firesiide. Here we found the elucidation of Jenny's marvel- lous tales : a copy of the Queen's proclamation, calling upon ail loyal gentlemen to join in putting down the unnatural rebellion. A letter from my sister explained the nature of the out- break, and the astonishment with which the news had been received by all the settlers in the bush. My brother and my sister's husband had already gone off to join some of the nu- merous bands of gentlemen who were collecting from all quarters to march to the aid of Toronto, which it was said was besieged by the rebel force. She advised me not to suffer Moodie to leave home in his present weak state r. but the spirit of my husband was aroused, he instantly obeyed what he considered the imperative call of duty, and told mo to prepare him a few necessaries, that he might be ready to start early in the morning. Little sleep visited our eyes that night. We talked over the strange news fof hours ; our com- ing separation, and the probability that if things were as bad fis they appeared to be, we might never meet again. Our affairs were in such a desperate condition that Moodie anticipated that any change must be for the better ; it was impossible for them to be worse. But the poor, anxious wife thought only of a parting which to her put a finishing stroke to all her misf(jrtunes. Before the cold, snowy morning broke, we were all stirring. The children, who had learned that their father was preparing to leave them, were crying and clinging round his knees. His heart was too deeply affected to eat ; the meal passed over in silence, and he rose to go. I put on my hat and shawl V) ac- company him through the »vood »:i8 fur »g rny sistei Mrs, / 148 ROUGHING IT m THE BUSH. ■„ 'i I i m *;.■ '4 '.ii mg. -'s. The day was like our destiny, cold, dark, and lower- I gave the dear invalid his crutches, and we commenced our sorrowful walk. Then old Jenny's lamentations burst forth, as, flinging her arms round my husband's neck, she kissed and blessed him after the fashion of hel country. " Och hone ! och hone !" she cried, wringing her hands, "masther dear, why will you lave tlie wife and the childher] The poor crathur is breakin' her heart intirely at partin' wid you. Shure an' the war is nothin' to you, that you must be goin' into danger ; an' you wid a broken leg. Och hone ! och hone ! come back to your home — you will be kilt, and thin what will become of the wife and the wee bairns ]" Her cries and lamentations followed us into the wood. At my sister's, Moodie and I parted ; and with a heavy heart I retraced my steps through the wood. For once, I forgot all my fears. I never felt the cold. Sad tears were flowing ovei my cheeks ; when I entered the house, hope seemed to have deserted me, and for upwards of an hour I lay upon the bed and wept. Poor Jenny did her best to comfort me, but all joy had vanished with him who was my light of life. Left in the most absolute uncertainty as to the real state of public affairs, I could only conjecture what might be the result of this sud- den outbreak. Several poor settlers called at the house during the day, on their way down to Peterborough ; but they brought with them the most exaggerated accounts. There had been a battle, they said, with the rebels, and the loyalists had been defeated ; Toronto was besieged by sixty thousand men, and all the men in the backwoods were ordeied to march in- stantly to the relief of the city. In the evening, I received a note from Emilia, who was at Peterborough, in which she informed me that my husband had borrowed a horse of Mr. S , and had joined a large party of two hundred volunteers, who had left that morning '-L THE OUTBREAK. 149 lower- nenced I burst .k, she r • hands, ildher] ;in' wid nust be le ! och nd thin od. At heart I irgot all ng ovei to have the bed t all joy ft in the e affairs, this sud- e during ut they lore had lists had tnd men, narch in- o was at husband d a large morning for Toronto ; that there had been a battle with the insiu'gents ; that Colonel Moodie had been killed, and the rebels had re- treated ; and that she hoped my husband would return in a few days. The honest backwoodsmen, p erfectly ignoran t of the abuses that had led to the pres ent po sition of t hings, re. garded the rebels as a set o f mons ters, for whom no punish- merit was too severe, and obeyed the call to arms with en- thusiasm. The leader of the insurgents must have been astonished at the rapidity with which a large force was col- lected, as if by magic, to repel his designs. A great number of these volunteers were half-pay officers, many of whom had fought in the continental wars with the armies of Napoleon, and would have been found a host in themselves. hi a week, Moodie returned. So many volunteers had poured into Toronto that the number of friends was liivcly to prove as disastrous as that of enemies, on account of tho want of supplies to maintain them all. The companies from the back townships had been remanded, and I received with delight my own again. But this reunion did not last long. Several regiments of militia were formed to defend the colony, and to my husband was given the rank of captain in one of those then stationed in Toronto. On the 20th of January, 1838, he bade us a long adieu. I was left with old Jenny and the children to take care of the farm. It was a sad, dull time. I could bear up against all trials with him to comfort and cheer me, but his long-con- tinued absence cast a gloom upon my spirit not easily to be shaken off. Still his very appointment to this situation was a Kignal act of mercy. From his full pay, he was enabled to liquidate many pressing debts, and tD send home from time to time sums of money to procure necessaries for me and the little ones. Tliese remittances were greatly wanted ; but I demurred before laying them out for comforts which we i/ 1 t. ^i li^t' #ii jyA :l £' 9 1 i 150 BOUGinXG IT IN THE hUSH. had been so long used to dispense with. It seemed almost criminal to purchase any article of luxury, such as tea and f?ugar, while a debt remained unpaid. The Y 's were very pressing for the thirty pounds that we owed them for the clearing ; but they had such a firm reli- ance upon the honour of my husband, that, poor and pressed for money as they were, they never sued us. I thought it would be a pleasing surprise to Moodie, if, with the sums of money which 1 occasionally received from him, I could dimin- ish this debt, which had always given him the greatest unea- siness ; and, my resolution once formed, I would not allow any temptation to shake it. The money was always trans- mitted to Dummer. I only reserved the sum of two doll^trs a-month, to pay a little lad to chop wood for us. After a time, I began to think the Y 's were gifted with second- sight ; for I never received a money-letter, but the very next day I was sure to see some of the family. Just at this period I received a letter from a gentleman, requesting me to write for a magazine (the Literary Garland)^ just started in Montreal, with promise to remunerate me foi my labours. Such ar application was like a gleam of ligh/ springing up in the darkness ; it seemed to promise the dawn ing of a brighter day. I had never been able to turn mj thoughts towards literature during my sojourn in the bush. When the body is fatigued with labour, unwonted and beyond its strength, the mind is in no condition for mental occupation. The year before, I had been requested by an American author, of great merit, to contribute to the North American Review^ published for several years in Philadelphia ; and he promised to remunerate me in proportion to the success of the work. I had contrived to write several articles after the children were asleep, though the expense even of the station- ery and the postage of the manuscripts was severely felt by ■ ' ^^ ''' l^giiv ' -PT T l-Wil^-J ' .Hl 'i .W ' H ' .yamUBIfJU. ' MaJLi ' JgJ W g THE 01 Tin: I- Ah'. 151 one so destitute of means ; but the hope of being of the least Bervice to those dear to me cheered me to the task. I never realized any thing from that source ; but I believe it was not the fault of the editor. Several other American editors had written to me to furnish them with articles ; but I was unable to pay the postage of heavy packets to the States, and they couju not reach their destination without being paid to the frontier. Thus, all chance of making any thing in that way had been abandoned. I wrote to Mr. L , and frankly m- formed him how I was situated. In the most liberal manner, he offered to pay the postage on all manuscripts to his oflice, and left me to name mv own terms of remuneration, lliis opened up a new era in my existence ; and for many years I have found in this generous man, to whom I am still perwun- ally unknown, a steady friend. I actually shed tears of joy over the first twenty-dollar bill I received from Montreal. It was my own ; I had earned it with my own hand ; and it seemed to my delighted fancy to form the nucleus out of which a future independence for my family might arise. 1 no longer retired to bed when the labours of the day were over. I sa up, and wrote by the light of a strange sort of candles, that Jenny called " sluts," and which the old womar manufactured out of pieces of old rags, twisted together and dipped in pork lard, and stuck in a bottle. They did not give a bad light, but it took a great many of them to last me for a few hours. The faithful old creature regarded my writings with a jealous eye. " An', shure, it's killin' yerself that you are in- tirely. You were thin enough before you took to the pen ; scribblin' an' scrabblin' when you should be in bed an' asleep. What good will it be to the childhren, dear heart ! if ^oa die afore your time, by wastin' your strength afther that fashion f Jenny never could conceive the use of books. "Shure, m (•i!; r 152 ROUQHINO IT IN THE BUSH. we can live and die widout them. It's only a waste of time botherin' your brains wid the like of them ; but, thank good- ness! the lard Mill soon be all done, an' thin we shall hear you spakin' again, instead of sittin' there doubled up all night, desthroying your eyes wid porin' over the dirthy » j» writ in As the sugar-making season drew near, Jenny conceived the bold thought of making a good lum'p of sugar, that the "childher" might have something to "ate" with their bread during the summer. We had no sugar-kettle, but a neigh- bour promised to lend us his, and to give us twenty-eight troughs, on condition that we gave him half the sugar we made. These terms were rather hard, but Jenny was so anxious to fulfil the darling object that we consented. Little Sol and the old woman made some fifty troughs more, the trees were duly tapped, a shanty in the bush was erected of small logs and brush and covered in at the top with straw ; and the old woman and Solomon, the hired boy, commenced operations. The very first day, a terrible accident happened to us ; a large log fell upon the sugar-kettle — the borrowed sugar-ket- tle — and cracked it, spilling all the sap, and rendering thi' vessel, which had cost four dollars, useless. We were all in dismay. Just at that time Old Wittals happened to pass, on his way to Peterborough. He very good-naturedly offered to get the kettle repaired for us ; which, he said, could be easily done by a rivet and an iron hoop. But where was the money to come from ! I thought awhile. Katie had a magnificent coral and bells, the gift of her godfather ; I asked the dear child if she would give it to buy another kettle for Mr. T . She said, " I would give ten times as much to help mamma," 1 wrote a little note to Emilia, who was still at her father's ; aad Mr. W , the storekeeper, sent us a fine sugar-kettle ' . f . 1 Km ! ^ T ■■ ywp jTOH f .miitLit li l ' l. . JLH.UHJiti ^MBg 2'HE OUTBREAK. 153 lirthy back by Wittals, and also the other mended, in exchange for tho useless piece of finery. We had now two kettles at work, to the j(jy of Jenny, who declared that it was a lucky fairy who hiid broken the old kettle. While Jenny was engaged in boiling and gathering the sap in the bush, I sugared off the syrup in the house ; an operation watched by the children with intense interest. After standing all day over the hot stove-fire, it was quite a refreshment to breathe the pure air at night. Every evening I ran up to see Jenny in the bush, singing and boiling down the sap in the front of her little shanty. The old woman was in her element, and afraid of nothing under the stars ; she slept beside her kettles at night, and snapped her fingers at the idea of the least danger. She was sometimes rather despotic in her treatment of her attendant, Sol. One morning, in particular, she bestowed upon the lad a severe cuffing. 1 ran up the clearing to the rescue, when my ears were assailed by the " ooo-hooing" of the boy. "What has happened? Why do you beat the chih', Jenny ?" " It's jist, thin, I that will bate him — the unlucky omad- hawn ! Has he not spilt and spiled two buckets of syrup, that I have been the live-long night bilin'. Sorra wid him ; I'd like to strip the skin off him, I would ! Musha ! but 'tis enough to vex a saint." '• Ah, Jenny !" blubbered the poor boy, " but you have *i:f mercy. You forget that I have but one eye, and that 1 could not see the root which caught my foot and threw me down." " Faix ! an' 'tis a pity that you have the one eye, when you don't know how to make a betther use of it," muttered the angry dame, as she picked up the pails, and, pushing him on before her, beat a retreat into the bush. I was heartily sick of the sugar-making, long before the VOL. II. 7* .H" ft M If I i I I'll ■I ';! ■•Ill 154 ROUaifINO IT IN THE BUSH. season was over ; however, we were well paid for < ur ti'ouble. Besides one hundred and twelve pounds of fine soft sugar, as good as Muscovado, we had six gallons of molasses, and a keg containing six gallons of oxeellctit vinegar. Fifty pounds went to Mr. T , for the use of his ko'lK". : and the rest (with the exception of a cake for Emilia, which 1 had draii; 1 in a wet flannel bag until it was almost as w!;;t'? as ioaf sugar) we kept for our own use. There was no lack, this year, of nice preserves and pickled cucumbers, dainties found in every native Canadian estahiishment. Besides gaining a little money with my pen, I practised a method of painting birds and butterflies upon the white, vel- vety surface of the large fungi that grow plentifully upon the bark of the sugar-maple. These had an attractive appear- ance; and my brother, who wa'^ a captain in one of the pro- visional regiments, sold a great many of them among the officers, without sa} ing by whom they w^ere painted. One rich lady in Peterborough, long since dead, ordered two dozen to send as curiosities to England. These, at one shilling each, enabled me to buy shoes for the children, who, during our bad times, had been forced to di;-[)ense with these necessary coverings. How often, during the >sinter season, have I wept over their little chapped feet, literally washing them with my tears ! But these days were to end ; Providence was doing great things for us ; and Hope raised at last her drooping .head to regard with a brighter glance the far-off future. Slowly the winter rolled away ; but he to whom every thought turned was still distant from his humble home. The receipt of an occasional letter from him was my only solace during his long absence, and we were still too poor to indulge often in this luxury. My poor Katie was as anxious as her mother to hear frcmi her father ; and when I did get the long- looked-for prize, she would kneel down before me, her little THE OUrhUEAS. 155 elbows resting on my knees, ncr head thrown back, and the tears trickling down her innocent cheeks, eagerly drinking in every word. The spring brought us plenty of work ; we had potatoes and corn to plant, and the garden to cultivate. By lending my oxen for two days' work, 1 got Wiltals, who had no oxen, to drag me in a few aci'cs of oats, and to prepare the land for potatoes and corn. The former I dropped into the earth, while Jenny covered them up with the hoe. Our garden was well dug and plentifully manured, the old woman bringing the manure, which hud lain for several year? at the barn door, down to the plot, in a large Indian basket j)laced upon a hand-sleigh. We had soon every sort of veg etable sown, with plenty of melons and cucumbers, and all our beds promised a good return. There were large flights of ducks upon the lake every night and morning; but thougJ we had guns, we did not know now to use them. However, I thought of a plan, which I flattered myself might pr-jVd successful ; I got Sol to plant two >takes in the shallow water, near the rice beds, and to liese I attached a slender rope, made by braiding long strips of the inner bark of the bass- wood together ; to these again I fastened, at regular Intervals, about a quarter of a yard of whi} -cord, headed by a strong perch-hook. Tliese hooks I baited with fish offiil, leaving them to float just under the water. Early next morning, I saw a fine black duck fluttering upon the line. The boy ran down with the paddles, but before he could reach the spot, the cap tiVe got away by carrying the hook and line with him. At the next stake he found upon the hooks a large eel and a cat- fish. I had never before seen one of those whiskered, toad-like natives of the Ca»iadian waters (so common to the Bay of Quinte, where they grow to a great size), that I was really ■^'Il'ii! I' 150 ROUGH I SO IT IN THE HUSH. terrified at the sight of the hideous beast, and told Sol k throw it away. In this I was very f(»olish, for they are esteemed good eating in many parts of Canada ; but to me, the sight of the reptile-lilc?. thing is enough — it is uglier, and far more disgusting-looking than a toad. When the trees came into leaf, and the meadows were green, and flushed with flowers, the poor children used to talk constantly to me of their father's return ; their innocent prat- tle made me very sad. Every evening we walked into the wood, along the path that he must come whenever he did return home, to meet him ; and though it was a vain hope, and the walk was taken just to amuse the little ones, 1 used to be silly enough to feel deeply disappointed when we re- turned alone. Donald, who was a mere baby when his father left us, could just begin to put words together. "Who is papa ?" " When will he come ?" " Will he come by the road ?" " Will he come in a canoe V The little creature's curiosity to see this unknown father was really amusing; and oh ! how I longed to present the little fellow, with his rosy cheeks and curling hair, to his father ; he was sc fair, so altogether charming in my eyes. Emilia had called him Cedric the Saxon ; and he well suited the name, with his frank, honest disposition, and large, loving blue eyes. June had commenced ; the weather was very warm, ajid Mr. T had sent for the loan of old Jenny to help him for a day with his potatoes. I had just prepared dinner when the old woman came shrieking like a mad thing down the clearing, and waving her hands towards me. I could not imagine what had happened. " Ninny's mad !" whispered Dunbar ; " she's the oH girl for making a noise." " Joy ! joy !" bawled out the old woman, now running THE OUTIiRKAK. 157 breathlessly towards us. * The masther's come — the nia» ther's come !" " Where ?— where ?" "Jist above \\\ the wood. Goodness gracious! I have nm to let you know — so fast — that my heart — is like to — break." Without stopping to comfort poor Jenny, off started the children and myself, at the very top of our speed ; but 1 soor found that I could not run — I was too mucii agitated. I got to the head of the bush, and sat down upon a fallen tree. The children sprang forward like wild kids, all but Donald, who remained with his old nurse. I covered my face with my hands ; my heart, too, was beating audibly : and now that he was come, and was so near me, I scarcely could com- mand strength to meet him. The sound of happy young voices roused me up ; the children were leading him along in triumph ; and he was bending down to them, all smiles, but hot and tired with his long journey. It was almost worth our separation, that blissful meeting. In a few minutes he was at home, and the childre; upon his knees. Katie stood silently holding his hand, but Addie and Dunbar had a thousand things to tell him. Donald was frightened at his military dress, but he peeped at him from behind my gown, \nitil I caught and placed him in his father's arms. His leave of absence only extended to a fortnight. It had ' taken him three days to come all the way from Lake Erie, where his regiment was stationed, at Point Abino ; and the same time would be consumed in his return. He could only remain with us eight days. How soon they fled away ! How bitter was the thought of parting with him again ! He had brought money to pay the J 's. How surprised he was to find their large debt more than half liquidated. How gently did he chide me for depriving myself and the children \ V •i w I. 15P ROUQHING IT IN THE BUSIL \ of the little comforts he had designed for us, in order to midce this sacrifice. But never was self-denial more fully rewarded ; 1 felt happy in having contributed in the least to pay a just debt to kind and worthy people. You must become poor yourself before you can fully appreciate the good qualities of the poor — before you can sympathize with them, and fully recognize them as your brethren in the flesh. Their benev- olence to each other, exercised amidst want and privation, as far surpasses the munificence of the rich towards them, as the exalted philanthropy of Christ and his disciples does the Christianity of the present day. The rich man gives from his abundance ; the poor man shares with a distressed com- rade his all. One short, happy week too soon fled away, and we were once more alone. In the fall, my husband expected the reg- iment in which he held his commission would be reduced, which would again plunge us into the same distressing pov- erty. Often of a night I revolved these things in my mind, and perplexed myself with conjectures as to what in future was to become of us. Although he had saved all he could from his pay, it was impossible to pay several hundreds of pounds of debt ; and the steamboat stock still continue m a dead letter. To remain much longer in the woods was im- possible, for the returns from the farm scarcely fed us ; and but for the clothing sent us by friends from home, who were not aware of our real difficulties, we should have been badly off indeed. I pondered over every plan that thought could devise ; at last, I prayed to the Almighty to direct me as to what would be the best course for us to pursue. A sweet assurance stole over me, and soothed my spirit, that God would provide for us, as lie had hitherto done — that a great deal of our distress arose from want of faith. I was just sinking into a calm sleep THE OUTBREJ.K, 150 make arded ; a just e poor ties of fully benev. ion, as as the es the 5 from 1 coni- e were le reg- iduced, % pov- mind, future ! could 3ds of lUBM a is im- ; and were badly e; at ^'ould stole B for 'tress 3]eep when the thought seemed whispered into my soul, " Write ta the Governor; tell him candidly all you have suffered during your sojourn in this country ; and trust to God for the rest." At firsf": I paid little heed to this suggestion ; but it became so impormnate that at last I determined to act upon it as if it were a message sent from heaven. I rose from my bed, struck a light, sat down, and wrote a letter to the Lieutenant- Governor, Sir George Arthur, a simple statement of facts, leaving it to his benevolence to pardon the liberty I hiid taken in addressing him. 1 asked of him to continue my husband in the militia service, in the same regiment in which he now held the rank of cap- tain, which, by enabling him to pay our debts, would rescue us from our present misery. Of the political character of Sir George Arthur I knew nothing. I addressed him as a man and a Christian; and I acknowledge, with the deepest and most heartfelt gratitude, the generous kindness of his conduct towards us. Before the day dawned, my letter was ready for the post. The first secret I ever had from my husband was the writing of that letter ; and, proud and sensitive as he was, and averse to asking the least favour of the great, I was dreM':^ fully afraid that the act I had just done would be displea;.Iiig to him ; still, I felt resolutely determined to send it. After giving the children their breakfast, 1 walked down and read it to my brother-in-law, who was not only much pleased with its contents, but took it down himself to the post-office. Shortly after, I received a letter from my husband, inform- ing me that the regiment had been reduced, and that he should be home in time to get in the harvest.. Most anxiously I awaited a reply to my application to the Governor ; but no reply came. The first week in August our dear Moodie came home, and brought with him, to our no small joy, J. E , who H f I! IP IGO ROUGinNG IT IN THE BUSH. had just returned from Ireland . E had been ^^'^)VO\'iia\ about the money, which was subject to litigation ; and, tired of waiting at home until the tedious process of the law should terminate, he had come back to the woods, and, before night, was reinstated in his old quarters. His presence made Jenny all alive ; she dared him at once to a trial of skill with her in the wheat field, which E prudently declined. He did not expect to stay longer in Canada than the fall, but, whilst he did stay, he was to con- sider our house his home. That harvest was the happiest we ever spent in the bush. We had enough of the common necessaries of life. A spirit of peace and harmony pervaded our little dwelling, for the most affectionate attachment existed among its members. We were not troubled with servants, for the good old Jenny we regarded as an humble friend, and were freed, by that cir- cumstance, from many of the cares and vexations of a bush Jfe. Our evening excursions on the lake were doubly en joyed after the labours of the day, and night brought us caina and healthful repose. .-J tired Ihoiilrj light, THE WHIRLWIND. once |er in con- CHAPTER X. THE WHIRLWIND. -/^^■|k came, and our little harvest was all id.^^BRi THE 19ti. of safely housedl^BRiness called Moodie away for a few days to Cobourg. Jenny had gone to Dumnicr, to visit hei friends, and J. E had taken a grist of the new wheat, which he and Moodie had threshed tlie day hefore, to the mill. 1 was consequently left alone with the children, and had a doi.ole portion of work to do. During their absence it was my lot to witness the most awful storm 1 ever beheld, and a vivid recollection of its terrors was permanently fixed upon my memory. The weather had been intensely hot during the three pj e- ceding days, although the sun was entirely obscured by a blueish haze, which seemed to render the unusual heat of the atmosphere more oppressive. Not a breath of air stirred the vast forest, and the waters of the lake assumed a leaden hue. After passing a sleepless night, I arose, a little after daybreak, to superintend my domestic afl'airs. E took his break- fast, and went off to the mill, hoping that the rain would keep ofl' until after his return. " It is no joke," he said, " being upon these lakes in a small canoe, heavily laden, in a storm." Before the sun rose, the heavens were covered with hard- looking clouds, of a deep blue and black cast, fading away to white at their edges, and in form resembling the long, rolling 1(52 ROUGHISG W IN THE BUSH. waves of a heavy sea — but with this dilTerenco, that the clouds were perfectly motionless, piled in long curved lines, one above the other, and so remained until four o'clock in the afternoon. The ajipearance of these clouds, as the sun rose above the hori- zon, was the most splendid that can be ijnagined, tinged up to the zenith with every shade of saffron, gold, rose-colour, scarlet, and crimson, fading away into the deepest violet. Never did the storm-fiend shake in the face of day a more gorgeous ban- ner ; and, pressed as I was for time, I stood gazing like one entranced upon the magnificent pageaii[dB^ As the day advanced, the same M^naze obscured the sun, which frowned redly through his misty veil. At ten o'clock the heat was sufiTocating, and I extinguished the fire in the cooking-stove, determined to make our meals upon bread a^'.i milk, rather than add to the oppressive heat. The ther- mometer in the shade ranged from ninety-six to ninety-eight degrees, and I gave over my work and retired with the little ones to the coolest part of the house. The young creatures stretched themselves upon the floor, unable to jump about or play ; the dog lay panting in the shade ; the fowls half buried themselves in the dust, with open beaks and outstretched wings. All nature seemed to droop beneath the scorching heat. Unfortunately for me, a gentleman arrived about one o'clock from Kingston, to transact some business wath my husband. He had not tasted food since six o'clock, and I was obliged to kindle the fire to prepare his dinner. It Mas one of the hardest tasks I over ',; ifjn.ird ; I almost fainted with the heat, and most inho-^pitrJily rejf>ii'erl when his dinner was over, and I saw him depart. Shortly afterwards, my friend Mrs. C and her brother ctilh.d in, on their way from Peterborough. " How do you bear the heat V'' asked Mrs. C . -. " This is one of the hottest days I ever reinember to have experienced THE WHIKL WIND, 10)3 in this part of the province. I am afraid that it vdW end in a hurricane, or what the Lower Canadians term ' L'Orage.' " About four o'clock they rose; to go. I urged them to stav longer. " No," said Mrs. C , '• the sooner we gel! homa the better. I think we can reach it before the storm breaks.'' I took Donald in my arms, and my eldest boy by the hand, and walked with them to the brow of the hill, thinking that the air would be cooler in the shade. In this I was mis- taken. The clouds over our heads hung so low, and the heat was so great, that I was soon glad to retrace my steps. The moment I turned round to face the lake, I was sur prised at the change that had taken place in the appearance of the heavens. The clouds, that had before lain so motion- less, were now in rapid motion, hurrying and chasing each other round the horizon. It was a strangely awful sight. Before I felt a breath of the mighty blast that had already burst on the other side of the lake, branches of trees, leaves, and clouds of dust were whirled across the lake, whose waters rose in long sharp furrows, fringed with foam, as if moved in their depths by some unseen but powerful agent. Panting with terror, I just reached the door of the house as the hurricane sw^ept up the hill, crushing and overturning every thing in its course. Spell-bound, I stood at the open door, with clasped hands, unable to speak, rendered dumb and motionless by the terrible grandeur of the scene ; while little Donald, who could not utter many intelligible words, crept to my feet, appealing to me for protection, while his rosy cheeks paled even to marble whiteness. The hurrying clouds gave to the heavens the appearance of a pointed dome, round w^liieh the lightning played in broad ribbons of Hre, The roaring of the thunder, the rushing of the blast, the im- petuous do\\ai-pouring of tin- ruin, and the crash of falling trees, were perfectly deafening ; and in the midst of this up- I»f. ■m ^^'^^ t. % < l&l liOUGHIXG IT LV THE JiLV/l. roar of the elements, old Jenny burst in, drenched Mith weti and half dead with fear. " The Lord preserve us !" she cried, " this surely is the day of judgment. Fifty trees fell across my very path, be- tween this an' the creek. Mrs. C just reached her brother's clearing a few minutes before a great oak fell on hfi very pfith. What thunther ! — what lightning ! Misthrcss, dear ! — it's turn'd so dark, I can only jist see yer face." Glad enough was I of her presence ; for to be alone hi the heart of the great forest, in a log hut, on such a night, was not a pleasing prospect. People gain courage by companionship, and m order to reassure each other, struggle to conceal their fears. "And where is Mr. E ?" " I hope not on the lake. He went early this morning to get the wheat ground at the mill." " Och, the crathur ! He's surely drowned. What boat could Stan' such a scrimmage as this?" I had my fears for poor John ; but as the chance that he had to wait at the mill till others were served was more than probable, I tried to still my apprehensions for his safety. The storm soon passed over, after having levelled several acres of wood near the house, and smitten down in its progress two gigantic pines in the clearing, which must have withstood the force of a thousand winters. Talking over the effects of this whirlwind with my brother, he kindly sent me the followang very graphic description of a whirlwind which passed through the town of Guelph in the summer of 1829. * " In my hunting excursions and rambles through the Upper Canadian forests, I had fre<]uently met with extensive wind-falls ; and observed with some surprise that the fallen * Written bv Mr. Strickland, of Douro. THE WUIKLWIND. u% trees lay strewn in a sucxicssion of circles, and eviJentl) ap- peared to have been twisted ofl'the stumps. I also reinurkeil that these wind-tails were generally narrow, and had the •a\> pearance of a road slashed through the forest. From obser- vations made at the time, and since coufiimed, I have no doubt that Colonel Reid's theory of storms 'a a correct one, viz., that all wind-storms move in a circular direction, and the nearer the centre the more violent the force of the wind. Having seen the effects of several similar hui-ricanes since my residence in Canada West, I slkall ])roceed to describe one which happened in the township of Guelph during the early part of the summer of 1829. "The weather, for the season of the year (May), had been hot and sultry, with scarcely a breath of wind stirring. I had heard distant thunder from an early hour in the morning, which, from the eastward, is rather an unusual occurrence. Abo';,t iO A. M., the sky had a most singular, and I must add a most awful appearance, presenting to the view a vast arch of rolling blackness, which seemed to gather strength and den- sity as it approached the zenith. All at once the clouds began to work round in circles, as if chasing one another through the air! Suddenly the dark arch of clouds appeared to break up into detached masses, whirling and mixing through each other in dreadful commotion. The forked lightning was incessant, accompanied by heavy thunder. In a short time, the clouds seemed to converge to a point, which approached very near the earth, still whirling with great rapidity directly under this point ; and apparently from the midst of the woods arose a black column, in the shape of a cone, which instantly joined itself to the depending cloud. The sight was now grand and \ awful in the extreme. Picture to your imagination a vast column of smoke, of inky blackness, reaching from earth to heaven, gyrating with fearful velocity — bright lightnings issu- liJil \ 106 ROUGIIINO IT IN THE BUSK ing from the vortex ; the roar of the thunder — the rushhig of the blast — the crash of timber — the limbs of trees, leaves, and rubbish, mingled with clouds of dust, whirling through the air ; — you then liave a faint idea of the scene. " I had ample time for observation, as the hurricane com- menced its devastating course about two miles from the town, through the centre of which it took its way, passing within fifty yards of where a number of persons, myself among the rest, were standing, watching its fearful progress. " As the tornado approached, the trees seemed to fall like a pack of cards before its irresistible current. After passii;g through the clearing made around the village, the force of the wind gradually abated, and in a few minutes died away entirely. " As soon as the storm was over, I went to see the damage it had done. From the point where I first observed the black column to rise from the woods and join the clouds, the trees were twisted in every dlreciion. A belt of timber had been levelled to the ground, about two miles in length and about one hundred yards in breadth. At the entrance of the town it crossed the river Speed, and uprooted about six acres of wood, which had been thinned out, and left by Mr. Gait (late superi.'' tendent of the Canada Company), as an ornament to his house. " The Eremosu road was completely blocked up for nearly half-a-mile, in the wildest confusion possible, hi its progress through the town the storm unroofed several houses, levelled many fences to the ground, and entirely demolished a frame barn. Windows were dashed in ; and, in one instance, tlie floor of a log house was carried through the roof Some hair- breadth escapes occurred ; but, luckily, no lives M^ere lost. " About twelve years since a similar storm occurred in fehe north part of the township of Douro, but was of much less magnitude. I heard an intelligent settler, who resided some yeai*s in the township of Madoc, state that, during his res! Uhing 3aves. rough com- Itown, itliin ig the 11 like THE WHIRL WIND. 16? dencc ih that townsh'p, a similar hurricane to the one I have described, though of a much more awful chai-acter, passed through a part of Marmora and Madoc, and had been traced, in a north-easterly direction, iij)wards of forty miles into the unsurveyed lands; the uniform width of which appeared to be three quarters of a mile. " It is very evident, from the traces which they have left behind them, that storms of this description have not been un- frequent in the wooded districts of Canada ; and it becomes a matter of interesting consideration whether the clearing of our immense forests will not, in a great measure, remove the cause of these phenomena." A few minutes after our household had retired to rest, my first sleep was broken by the voice of J. E , s])eaking to old Jenny in the kitchen. He had been overtaken by the storm but had run his canoe ashore upon an island before its full fury burst, and turned it over the flour ; while he had to brave the terrors of a pitiless tempest — butTeted by the wind, and drenched with torrents of rain. I got up and made him a cup of tea, while Jenny prepared a rasher of bacon and eggs for his supper. Shortly after this, J. E bade a final adieu to Canada, A^ith his cousin C. W . lie volunteered into the Scotch Greys, and we never saw him more ; but I have been told that he was so highly respected by the officers of the regiment that they subscribed for his commission ; that he rose to the rank of lieutenant ; accompanied the regiment to India, and was at the taking of Cabul; but fr:m himself we never heard ngaln. The Ifllh of October, my third son was born; and a few days after, my husband was appointed paymaster to the militia regiments in the V. District, with the rank and full pay of captain. 1G8 KOUGiriXQ IT IX THE JiUSlF. I This was Sir George Arthur's doing. lie returned no an swer to my application, l)Ut he did not forget us. As the time that ]\Ia indition by the labour of his hands ; but a gulf of ruin to the v-iin and idle, who only set foot upon these shores to ac^.ele- rnte their ruin. But to return to Captain N . It was at this disastrous period that Jenny entered his service. Had her master adapted his habits and expenditure to his altered circumstances, much misery might have been spare(i, both to himself and hia family. But he was a proud man — too proud to work, or to I THE WALK TO DUMMER. 176 Jttling leceive with kindness the offers of service tendered to him by his hcalf-civilized, but well-meaning neighbours. " Hang him !" cried an indignant English settler (Captain j\ was an Irishman), whose offer of drawing wood had been rejected with unmerited contempt. " Wait a few years and we shall see whftt his pride will do for him. I am sorry for his poor wife and children ; but for himself, I have no pity for him." This man had been uselessly insulted, at the very moment when he was anxious to perform a kind and benevolent action ; when, like a true Englishman, his heart was softened by witnessing the sufferings of a young delicate female and her infant family. Deeply affronted by the Captain's foolish con- duct, he now took a malignant pleasure in watching his arro. gant neighbour's progress to ruin. The year after the sale of his commission. Captain N found himself considerably in debt, " Never mind, Ella," he said to his anxious wife ; " the crops will pay all." The crops were a failure that year. Creditors pressed hard ; the Captain had no money to pay his workmen, and he would not work himself. Disgusted with his location, but miable to change it for a better ; without friends of his own class (for he was the only gentleman then resident in the new township), to relieve the monotony of his existence with their society, or to afford him advice or assistance in his difficul- ties, the fatal whiskey -bottle became nls refuge from gloomy thoughts. His wife, an amiable and devoted creature, well born, well educated, and deserving of a better lot, did all in her power to wean him from the growing vice. But, alas ! the plead- ings of an angel, in such circumstances; would have had little effect upon the mind of such a man. lie loved her as well &s he could love any thing, and he fancied t*.iat he loved his 176 ROUOHINQ IT m THE BUSff. children, while ho was daily reducing them, by his favourite vice, to beggary. For awhile, he confined his excesses to his own fireside, but this was only for as long a period as the sale of his stock and land would supply him with the means of criminal indul- gence. After a time, all these resources failed, and his large grant of eight hundred acres of land had been converted into whiskey, except the one hundred acres on which his house and barn stood, embracing the small clearing from which the family derived their scanty supply of wheat and potatoes. For the sake of peace, his wife gave up all her ornaments and household plate, and the best articles of a once handsome and ample wardrobe, in the hope of hiding her sorrows from the world, and keeping her husband at home. The pride, that had rendered him so obnoxious to his humbler neighbours, yielded at length to the inordinate craving for drink ; the man who had held himself so high above his honest and industrious fellow-settlers, could now unblushingly enter their cabins and beg for a drop of whiskey. The feel- ing of shame once subdued, there was no end to his audacious mendiciiy. His whole time was spent in wandering about the country, calling upon every new settler, in the hope of being asked to partake of the coveted poison. He was even known to enter by the window of an eminrrant's cabin, during the absence of the owner, and remain drinking in the house while a drop of spirits could be found in the cupboard. When driven forth by the angry owner of the hut, he wandered on to the distant town of P , and lived there in a low tavern, while his wife and children were starving at home. " He is the filthiest beast in the township," said the afore- mentioned neighbour to me ; " it would be a good thing for his wife and children if his worthless neck were broken in one ol* his 'i/'unkcn sprees." 1^ THE WALK TC DUMMER. \n This might be the melancholy fact, but it wj ^ not the lew dreadful on that account. The h jsband of an aftectiopate wife — the father of a lo\ely family — and his death to be a i jattei of rejoicing ! — a blessing, instead of being ai aftli Hion ! — aL agony not to be thought upon without the deepest sorrow. It was at this melancholy period of her sad history that Mrs. N found, in Jenny Buchanan, a help in her hour of need. The heart of the faithful creature bled for the misery which involved the wife of her degraded master, and the children she so dearly loved. Their want and destitution called all the sympathies of her ardent nature into active operation ; they were long indebted to her labour for every morsel of food which they consumed. For them, she sowed, she planted, she reaped. Every block of wood which shed a cheering warmth around their desolate home was cut from the forest by her own hands, and brought up a steep hill to the house upon her back. For them, she coaxed the ne^hbours, with whom she was a general favourite, out of many a mess of eggs for their especial benefit ; while with her cheerful songs, and hearty, hopeful disposition, she dis- pelled much of the cramping despair which chilled the heart of the unhappy mother in her deserted home. For several years did this great, poor woman keep the w«.lf from the door of her beloved mistress, toiling for her with the strength and energy of a man. When was man ever 90 devoted, so devoid of all selfishness, so attached to employ, ers, yet poorer than herself, as this uneducated lrishw.yman 1 A period was at length put to her unrequited services. In a fit of intoxication her master beat her severely with the iron ramrod of his gun, anl turned her, with abusive Ian- guage, from his doors. Oh, hard return for all her unpaid labours of love ! She forgave this outrage for the sake of the helpless beings who depended upon her care. He repeatejj 1 I k % VOL. II. 8' , Vi ! ''I 178 ROUOlimO IT IN THE BUS II. the injury, and the poor creature returned almost heart broken to her former home. Thinking thiit his spite would subside in a few days, Jenny made a third ellurt to enter his house in her usual capacity ; but Mrs. N told her, with many tears, that her presence would only enrage her husband, who had threatened herselt with the most cruel treatment if she allowed the faithful ser vant again to enter the house. Thus ended her five years' service to this ungrateful master. Such was her reward ! I heard of Jenny's worth and kindness from the English- man who had been so grievously affronted by Captain N , and sent for her to come to me. She instantly accepted my offer, and returned with my messenger. She had scarcely a garment to cover her. I was obliged to find her a suit of clothes before I could set her to work. The smiles and dim. pies of my curly-headed, rosy little Donald, then a baby-boy of fifteen months, consoled the old woman for her separation from EUie N ; and the good-will with which all the children (now four in number) regarded the kind old body, soon endeared to her the new home which Provideroe had assigned to her. Her accounts of Mrs. N , and her family, soon deeply interested me in her fate ; and Jenny never went to visit her friends in Dummer without an interchange of good wishes passing between us. The year of the Canadian rebellion came, and brought wi'ih it sorrow into many a bush dwelling. Old Jenny and I were left alone with the little children, in the depths of the dark forest, to help ourselves in the best way we could. Men could not be procured in that thinly-settled spot for love nor money, and I now fully realized the extent of Jen- ny's usefulness. Daily she yoked the oxen, and brought down fi'om the bush fuel to maintain our fires, which she felled and T7 THE WALK TO DUMMER. 17M chopped up with her own hands. She fed the cattle, and kept ftll things snug about the doors ; not forgetting to load her master'^a two guns, " in case,' as she said, " the ribels should attack us in our retrate." The months of November and December of 1838 had beer unnaturally mild for this iron climate ; but the opening of the ensuing January brought a short but severe spell of frost and Enow. We felt very lonely in our solitary dwelling, crouching round the blazing fire, that scarcely chased the cold from our miserable log tenement, until this dreary period was suddenly cheered by the unexpected presence of my beloved friend, Emilia, who came to spend a week with me in my forest home. She brought her own baby-boy with her, and an ample sup- ply of buffalo robes, not forgetting a treat of baker's bread, and " sweeties" for the children. Oh, dear Emilia ! best and kindest of women, though absent in your native land, long, long shall my heart cherish with affectionate gratitude all your visits of love, and turn to you as to a sister, tried, and found 4^ • most faithful, in the dark hour of adversity, and amidst the \ ^ ^ almost total neglect of those from whom nature claimed » ^ ^s^ tenderer and holier sympathy. ^^ Great was the joy of Jenny at this accession to our family party , and after Mrs. S was well warmed, and had par- taken of tea — the only refreshment we could offer her — we began to talk over the news of the place. " By the by, Jenny," said she, turning to the old servant, who was undressing the little boy by the fire, " have you heard lately from poor Mrs. N 1 We have been told that she and the family are in a dreadful state of destitution. That worthless man has left them for the States, and it is supposed that he has joined Mackenzie's band of ruffians on Navy lslan II ( ,1 m 180 HOUGHING IT IN THE BUSH. \\\ wife und children, tnki ig his eldest son along with hinn (who might have V)een of some service at home), and leaving them without money or food." *' The good Lord ! What will become of the crathurs ?" responded Jenny, wiping her wrinkled cheek with the back of her hard, brown hand. " An* thin they have not a sowl to chop and draw them firewood ; an' the weather so oncommon savaro. Och hone ! what has not that haste of a man to answer for?" " I heard," continued Mrs. S , " that they have tasted no food but potatoes for the last nine months, and scarcely enough of them to keep soul and body together ; that they have sold their last cow ; and the poor young lady and hei second brother, a lad of only twelve years old, bring all th« wood for 'CxM ^"6 from the bush on a hand-sleigh." " Ch, dear !— oh, dear !" sobbed Jenny ; " an' I not there to hi 'p them ! An' poor Miss Mary, the tinder thing ! Oh, 'ti? Iiarc , terribly hard for the crathurs ! an' they not used to th* like" " Can nothing be done for them ]" said I. '• That is what we want to know," returned Emilia, " and that was one of my reasons for coming up to D-43v>Cl wanted to consult you and Jenny upon the subject. You who are an officer's wife, and I, who am both an officer's wift and daughter, ought to devise some plan of rescuing thii unfortunate lady and her family from her present forlorr situation." The tears sprang to my eyes, and I thought, in the bittei aess of my heart, upon my own galling poverty, that m^ pockets did not contain even a single copper, and that I ha< scarcely garments enough to shield me from the inclemencj of the weather. By unflinching industry, and taking my par*. *n the toil of the field, I had bread for myself and family, and TIIK WALK TV l>iMMi:U. IMI this was more than poor Mrs. N possi'SHtid ; but it ap peared impossible for iiic to bo of any assistance to the un- happy sufferer, and the thought of my incapacity gave mo severe pain. It was only in moments like the present that I felt the curse of poverty. " Well," continued my friend, " you see, Mrs. Moodio, that the ladies of P are all anxious to do what they can for her ; but they first want to learn if the miserable circum- stances in which she is said to bo placed are true. In shorty my dear friend, they want you and me to make a pilgrimage to Dummer, to see the poor lady herself; and then they will he guided by our report." " Then let us lose no time in going upon our own mission of mercy." " Och, my dear heart, you will be lost in the woods !" said old Jenny. " It is nine long miles to the first clearing, and that through a lonely, blazed path. After you are through the beaver-meadow, there is not a single hut for you to rest or warm yourselves. It is too much for the both of yees ; you will be frozen to death on the road." " No fear," said my benevolent friend ; " God will take care of us, Jenny. It is on His errand we go ; to carry a message of hope to one about to perish." " The Lord bless you for a darllnt," cried the old woman, devoutly kissing the velvet cheek of the little fellow sleeping upon her lap. " May your own purty child never know the want and sorrow that is around her." Emilia and I talked over the Dummer scheme until we fell asleep. Many were the plans we proposed for the imme- ^s^ diate relief of the unfortunate fiimily . Early the next morn- ing, my brother-in-law, Mr. T , called upon my friend. , The subject next our heart was immediately introduced, and ^ ho "