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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m^thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 mm i w i I It)^ >.i^ V" 13. =i^^\^'^4;^ Sf? m ^4 ■ %i;,:« 4 7 ?i* I ^ >^ >■! ;'..< ^r%' '^ *:• :^ / ^fe ^,-v-:^'*r' I ^ i^ -s, -i- Beyond^t. tiK marshes :A/;;v.',!:';:;.;W ■ W^S T ■«: 'jJ.ifjO-^'ft-,-!*-/ ^>- » I 5€v;ond Aarsbes R^alpt) Connor With an Introductory notf by thf Countess of abfrdeen Toronto : The Westminster Company, Limited ::«f- / Kntered accortlinp, to Aci of the I'ariuunoni •A (.;ira,la, in the yuar one lliousand avj.ln huiulred :\in\ nii'ct\-ci\ ht liy 'I'm--. Wt.ST'.UNSTKK ("o/.ll'AW, at UH' 1 )>.■;), irlnuait of Asiricuhure. ^mf'* '^^f^^^w^-i^'^i^^m^'P^-'T^'mm*^ i ^ i I HAVE you ever caught the scent of the clover as you wer- whirled away by tl;e train be- yond Hie city on a summer's day and sped through the rich pasture lands ? And do you remen^her how you stepped forth at tht first h.alt- ing-place to secure a sprig of the sweet homely flower that had spoken to you so eloquirntly in its own language, and how you pressed it in your book? Does not its perfume remain with you till this day ? And every now and then a fragrance is wafted to our inner senses as we read some simple story which is to us as a breath of the clover, bringing us a mes- sage of sweetness and beauty, and going straight to 01 ■ hearts with the power that belongs to the secrets which lie hidden at our life's core. And this sweet prairie idyll is surely one of those fragrant messages which lays its hold on us as we pause tor a moment in the midst of our fevered lives and anxious thoughts, and step across the threshold of that chamber where we must needs put our shoes from off our feet, for the place whereon we stand is holy ground. And, as we press on again to life's duties, may we bear with us something of the precious perfume diffused by plants which are divine in their origin and which must be divine in their influence. ISHBEL ABERDEEN Toronto, November 7, 1898. *■ I ITIffJf^ i ■'< iwcfaiT';'*'. BEYOND THE MARSHES H \ i THE missionary of the Bonjour field found me standing bag in hand upon the railway platform watching my train steam away to the East. He is glad to see me. 1 am oi his own kind, and there are so few of his kind about that his welcome is strong and warm. He is brown and spare and tough-looking. For six montlis he has driven along ti)e pitching trails and corduroy roads, drenched by rains, scorched by suns and pursued by the flies. As to the flies there is something to be said. They add much to the mis- sionary's burden, and furnish unequalled opportunity for the exercise of the Christian graces of patience and self-control. In early spring they appear, and throughout the whole summer they continue in varying forms, but in unvarying persistence and ferocity. There are marsh flies, the bulldogs, '* which take the piece right out,'* the gray wings the blue devils (local name), which, doubtless, take several pieces right out, the mosquitoes, unsleeping, unmerciful, unspeakable, the sand flies, which go right in and disappear, and the black flies. ~m. s *>S- »; I " When do they go away ? " I asked a native. " Oh, them black fellows go away on snow- shoes." These each and all have taken a nip and a suck from the missionary as he pushed on by night and by day through their savage territory. I glance at him, and :ure enough they seem to have got all the juice out of him, but they have left the sinew and the bone. His nerve too is all there, and his heart is sound and '* under his ribs," whicli one of his admir- ing flock considers the right spot. It is Saturday afternoon, and we are to drive to the farthest of his three stations to be ready for the Communion Service there, at half -past ten to- morrow morning. "Where does it lie?" I ask. *' Oh, away beyond the Marshes," was the answer. Everyone evidently knows where the Great Marshes are. But first we must drink a delicious cup of tea, from a brave young Scotchwoman, who has learned the trick of making a home for her husband and babies amid the limitations of Canadian wilds, little like the Edinburgh home where she herself was a baby, and which she left not so very long ago. Then we must take a look at the new manse of which the missionary feels he has the right to be I -V :,( 4«3fef.'^-."' i modestly proud, for it is mostly the work of his own hand. He, like his great Master, is a carpeiiter, and day and night in the pauses of his preaching, and visiting, and studying, he has wrought at it, getting such help as he can, till there it stands, among the trees, the little cottage manse, announcing to all that the mission has come to stay. '\\\t front room. with writing-desk, book-shelf, table, all of the mis- sionary's making, does for reception and dining room, study and parlor. Behind it is the kitchen, with ingenious cupboards ; and opening otf from this the bedroom, tlve by seven, with bedstead and washstand, both home-made, and both nailed fast to the wall. Altogether, a snug little, tight little house, going a long way to content one with being a bachelor. And now we hitch up Golddust, and are otT through the glorioj'> yellow light and purple haze of this September afternoon. Golddust is the mis- sionary's horse, and evidently the missionary's weak- ness. His name and, as his owner thinks, his speed, his spirit, and other characteristics he inherits from his sire. Old Golddust of western racing fame. Old Golddust, if he has transmitted his characteristics, must have been a horse of singular modesty, for his son continues resolutely unwilling throughout this drive to make any display of his nobler qualities. ^M 4P I i ii By an extraordinary piece of good fortune, due to an evil but unfair report of Golddust in his young days, " they didn't know how to handle him," the missionary had bought him for $25 ! One result of the deal has been an unlimited confidence on the part of the missionary in his own horse-dealing in- stinct. It is quite true that Golddust has not always shown his present mild and trustful disposition. In- deed the missionary goes on to tell how, being loaned for a day to a brother missionary up west, the horse had returned in the evening much excited, but not much the worse, with a pair of shafts dang- ling at his heels. The missionary brother did not appear till the day following, and then in a shocking bad temper. " He was a Methodist brother and didn't understand horses," and the happy faraway look in the fare of his present owner led me to doubt whether that day's exploit had lowered Golddust in his estimation. Meantime we are drinking deep of the delights of this mellow afternoon. On either side of our trail lie yellow harvest fields, narrow, like those of Eastern Canada, and set in frames of green poplar bluffs that rustle and shimmer under the softly going wind. Then on through scrub we go, bumping over roots and pitching through holes till we suddenly push out from the scrub, and before us lie the Marshes. There i ■P I r<- they sweep for miles away, with their different grasses waving and whispering under the steady blowing breeze, first the red -top, then as the soil grows wet the blue-joint and the swamp grass, and out of the standing water the dark green reeds, and farthest in the tall wild cane bowing its stately tasselled head. These red-top and blue- joint reaches are the hay- lands of the settlers about. Skirting the edge of the Marshes we push again through straggling scrub, then past more marshes and into woods where we follow a winding trail till it leads us into a little clearing. In the centre of the clearing stands a cluster of log buildings ; stables of different kinds, milk house, th.e old shanty, and, at a little distance, the new house, all looking snug and trim. Through the bars we drive inio the yard filled with cattle, for the milking time is on. A shy lad of ten with sunburned, freckled face and good blue eyes, comes forward and is greeted as " Donald " by the missionarv. " Hello, Donald, how are you ? " 1 ask, opening the conversation. Donald looks at me and is in- audible, meanwhile unhitching Golddust with mar- velous rapidity. "How many cattle have you, Donald.?" 1 venture again. "i" t o-- 1^ «n I 1 I I \ i» { Donald evidently considered this a reasonable question, for he answers in delicious Scotch : " Abou-e-t the-r-r-h-ty." What a pity we can find no spelling to reproduce that combination of guttural and aspirate and the inimitable inflection of voice. It is so delightful that 1 ask him again, and again the answer comes with even more emphasis upon guttural and aspirate, and an added curve to the inflection : '' Abou-e-t the-r-r-h-ty." My heart goes out to him, and watching his neat quick work with Golddust, 1 begin to understand the look of thrift about the yard. It is the mark of the «' weel daein" Scot. We go up to the door of the new log house. Be- fore the door are two broad, flat stones washed clean. *' Scotch a^ain," I say to myself. Had ! not seen them in manv a Scotch village in front of the little stone cottages, thatched and decked with the climb- ing rose ! , . . The door is opened by Mrs. McPhail. That is not her name, of course. I am not going to outrage the shy modesty of that little woman by putting her name in bold print for all the world to see„ A dear little woman she is, bowed somewhat with the burden of her life, but though her sweet face is worn and thin, it is very bright, and now it is aglow with wel- Vi i^i come to her friend the missionary. She welcomes me, too, but with a gentle reserve. She is ready enough to give of her heart's wealth, but only to those she has learned to trust. And my friend has gained a full reward for his six months' work in that he has won this woman's willing trust. When the flush, called up by the greeting, dies, I see how pale she is, and 1 wonder how the winds and frosts and fierce suns have left so little trace upon the face of a Manitoba farmer's wife. I understand this later, bu; not now. When she was a girl, her hair was thick and fair, but now it is white and thin, and is drawn smoothly back and fastened in a decent liitle knot behind. Her eyes, once bright and blue, are blue still, but faded, for tears, salt and hot, have washed out the color. She wears a flannel dress, simple and neat ; and the collar at the neck and the lace-edged ker- chief at the breast and the tidy daintiness of all about her make her a picture of one who had been in her youth " a w.el brocht up lass." Her house is her mirror. The newly plastered, log-built walls are snow-white, the pine floor snow- white, and when the cloth is spread for tea it, too, is snow-white. Upon the wall hangs a row of graduated pewter platter covers. How pathetically incongruous are they on the walls of this Canadian f i.' i VWif^--- \ \ . V I \ I .f*' log house ! But tbey shine. The table and the chairs shine. The spoons and knives and glasses and dishes shine, glitter. The whole kitchen is spotless, from the white window blinds to the white tloor, and there is a glitter on every side, from the ♦(. aihftic pewter covers on the wall to the old silver teaspoons upon the table. Mr. McPhail comes in, a small man with a quiet, husky voice and a self-respecting manner. His eye is clear and dark blue, and has a look of intellect in it. When he speaks he has a way of looking straii>ht into you with a steady, thoughtful gaze. A man would find it equally difficult to doubt or to deceive him. The pioneer life has bowed his body and sub- dued his spirit, but the whole mass of his triais and the full weight of his burdens have not broken his heart's courage nor soured its sweetness, nor dim- med his hope in God. We are invited to tea with an air of apologetic cordiality. The food is fit for princes ; home-made bread white and flaky, butter yellcw and sweet, eggs, just from the nest, and cream. There is cream enough for your tea, for fruit and to drink ! Cake there is too and other dainties ; but not for me. No cake nor dainty can tempt me from this bread and butter. Queen Victoria has not better this night. I much doubt if she has as good ! God bless her! 12 ■ r . 7™ ■' ' V ^ At the head and foot of the table sit the fathc and mother, and Alexander, Jean and Donald, with the missionary and myself make up the company. The children take their tea in silence but for a whisp- ered request now and then, or a reply to some low- toned direction from the mother. They listen in terested in tlieir elders' talk, and hugely amused at the jokes. There is no pert interjection of smart sayings, so awful in ill-trained children of ill-bred parents. They have learned that ancient and almost forgotten doctrine that children should be seen. I tell my best stories and make my pet jokes just to see them laugh. They laugh as they do everything else, with a gentle reserve ; and occasionally Jean, a girl of fifteen, shy like the rest, pulls herself up with a blush, lest she has been unduly moved to laughter. The mother presides over all with a quiet efficiency, taking keen, intelligent interest in the conversation, now and then putting a revealing question, all the while keeping a watchful fye upon the visitors' plates lest they should come near being empty. The talk goes back to the old times. But these people talk with difficulty when their theme is them- selves. But my interest and questions draw their story from them. Fifteen years ago the father and mother left the cosy Glasgow home and the busy lifi^ of that busy »3 , \ < A \ *m::: \ \ I city, and came over sea and land with their little girl and baby boy to Winnipeg;. There they lived for two years till with the land-yearning in their hearts I hey came out from the town to this far-back spot away beyond the Marshes. Here they cut out of the forest their home, and here they have lived amid the quiet, cool woods ever since, remote from the bustle and heat of the great world. •' Why to this place instead of to any other.? " ! ask. ' There was the hay from the Marshes to be sold, and the wood, too," answered the little man. "But," he went on, ;' I could not make much out of the wood, and I was too old to learn, so 1 gave it up, and went into Winnipeg to work at my trade. And! indeed," he added cheerfully, " 1 made very good wages of it." I look at him, and think of the day when he gave up the fight with the wood, and came in beaten to tell his wife how he must go to the city. ! know she smiled at him, her heart going down the while, and cheered him, though she was like to despair at the thought of the lonely winter. Ah, the pathos of it ! Did God help them that day ? Ay, and for many a day after. And may He forgive all people whose lives overflow with plenty of everything, and who fret their souls for petty ills. Through the winter the snow piled up round the '4 -J *m:T. shanty where lived the little tair-haired woman and her little girl of nine years and two babies now, thinking, talking, dreaming, weeping, waiting tor the spring and the home-coming of the father. One of the horses died, and the other was sold. Their places were taken by oxen. " And the oxen are really very good; I like to work w'<^h the oxen," says the little man, with heroic Scotch philosophy and invincible content. He cannot have the best • he will make the best of what he can have. Again, may God forgive us who fling down tools because they are not the best, and refuse to work, and fret instead. Those days are all gone, but they are not yet passed out of the life of this family. They have left their stamp on heart and character of these steadfast, gentle people, for they are a part of all that they have met. After tea I am told that \ have not yet seen Katie, and the manner of telling makes me feel that there is something in store for me. And so there is. 1 am taken across a narrow hall and into another room, spotless as the kitchen, the same white walls, white floor, and dainty curtains. This is Katie's room, and there upon a bed lies Katie herself. I have come into the heart of the home. Katie is the eldest of the family. She is the little 15 'Mi i 5 / * i: >, 9. > girl of nine that stayed throug:li the long winter with the mother, and helped her witli the babies inside and tlie beasts outside, and was the clieer and comfort of the house while the father was away in WiP'iipeg, brave little girl that she was. She is now tweiuv-four, and for tiie last nine years she has suffered from a mysterious and painful illness, and now for eighteen months she has lain upon her bed and she cannot rise. We all have in us the beast feeling that shrinks from the weak and wounded : but when 1 look at Katie there is no shrinking in me. Her face has not a sign of fretful weakness. It seems as if it had caught the glitter of the home, of the pewter covers, and the old silver teaspoons. It is bright. That is its characteristic. The broad brow is smooth, and the mouth, though showing the lines of suffering —what control these lines suggest ! -is firm and content. The dark eyes look out from under their straight black brows with a friendly searching. " Come near," they say, *' are you to be trusted ? " and you know you are being found out. But they are kindly eyes and full of pface, with none of that look in them that shows when the heart is anxious or sore. The face, the mouth, the eyes, tell the same tale or a soul that has left its storms behind and has made the haven, though not without sign of the rough weather without. t6 4 'I .' . ^ , ■■■'•, ,--^ '■. : . ^ *•■'-■■" V ^ .-li. •I k \\ m -,- *• There is no sick-room feeling here. The coverlet, the sheets, tlie niijht -dress, with frills at tiie breast and wrist.-* — everything about Katie is sweet and fresh. Every morning of her life she b spon,^ed and dressed, and " freshed up a bit " by her mother's loving hands. It takes an hour to do it, and there are many household cares ; but what an liour that is ! Wliat talk, what gentle, tearful jokes, what tender touches! Ihe hour is one of Sacrament to them both, for He is always there in whose presence they are reverent and glad. We " take the Books," and i am asked lo be priest. One needs his holy garments in a sanctuary like this. After the evening worship is over 1 talk with Katie. " Don't you feel the time lon^i: ? Don't you giow weary sometimes ? " " No ! Oh, no ! " with slight surprise. '' I am • content." *' But surely you get lonely— blue now and then ?" ** Lonely ^ " with the brightest of smiles. ** Oh, no ! They are all here." Heaven forgive me ! 1 had thought she perhaps might have wanted some of the world's cheerful distraction. ** But was it always so > Didn't you fret at the tirst?" I persisted. J I I ■-. CM I >*fl ' ^ ■■ ^ \, - V i .' ' !~ '--V-.- / : ■! # ■■' 1 *. K'.-J 'f .'*« )i t rV ,r^ u ^.> ' n r \ '3 ^; "No, not :\\ fhe first." " Ttiat means that bad times came afterwards ? " " Yes," slie answers slowly, and a faint red comes up in her cheek as if from shame. " After the tirst six months I found it pretty hard." I wait, not sure what thoughts I have brought to her, and then she goes on : ** It was hard to see my mother tired with the work, and Jean could not get to school," and she could go no farther. " Rut that all passed away ? " I asked, after a pause. " Oh, yes ! " and her smile says much. It was the memory of her triumph that brought her smile, and it illumined her face. My words came slowly. 1 could not comfort where comfort was not needed. I could not pity, facing a smile like that, and it seemed hard to rejoice over one whose days were often full of pain. But it came to me to say : " He has done much for you ; and you are doing much for Him." " Yes. He has done much for me." But she would ^8 no further. Her service seemed small to her, but to me it seemed great and high. We, in our full blood and unbroken lite, have our work, our common work, but this high work is not for us— i8 i'J '"i ^ iij we arc nut ^ood enou,iih. Ihis Me keeps for tliost- His lovf uuikes pure by pain. I iiis would almost make one content to MitTei. Next morninir we all wei.t to the little \o^ school, where ihe Comrminion service was to be held all but the tatlier and Katie. " You have done me mud) good," 1 could not but s.ii l'eiV)re i left; "and von are a blessin^ik^ in your iioine." I he color rose m her pale cheLk, hut she onlv said ; " I am i;hid you were sent to us.'' Then I came away, humbly and sottlv, teelmg as it 1 had been ;m a holy place, where 1 was noi worthy to stand. An<.i a holy place it will ever be to me--- the While room, ilie spotless white room, lit by the i^lnry .;t that bright, sweet, patient \c\Ci\ A; ilie 'I able that day die mother's face had the same glory - ti c givtry i)f diose tliai uv.-rcome, the lellection ol tht.' :'j My to tollow. Hai)py, blessed home! I'iic snow^ mav pile up into the blutT and the blizzards s^veep over ilie svhi.>iling- reeds of ib.e Marshes, but i.<:»ii!ing CAW cnill the love or ;iirn the hopes that wa^ni and brighten the hearts in iwc iittle iog-house beviviid iht; Marches, lor tiiey have tiieir source rtom that higl) place v/here love never laileth and hopes never disappoint. .<•■» ..' #- «■• i ,