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'^ 
 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 
M/v 
 
.4yV 
 
 F' 
 
 / 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT SELLAR 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 Ill 
 
 HUimKQDON, Q. 
 
 CANADIAN QLEAKEB OFHOS 
 1889 
 
■ ^^ 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The stories contained in this little volume 
 appeared, with two exceptions, in the columns 
 of the newspaper conducted by their author, 
 and he thought they were of sufficient local 
 value to be preserved in more permanent form. 
 Knowing it would be vain to seek a publisher 
 for them, the book was printed in his office, 
 which being destitute of the appliances for 
 such work, accounts for the rude appearance of 
 its pages, which he hopes will be overlooked, as 
 being in keeping with the scenes of backwoods' 
 life which they endeavor to delineate. Should 
 a sufficient number of copies of this volume be 
 sold to cover outlay, a second may follow. 
 
 II 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQf. 
 
 JeAKIS MOBISON, 1 
 
 An Incident op HuNrmaDON Fair, . - 35 
 
 Lost in the Woods, 54 
 
 The Settleb's Fibst Qbist, 61 
 
 The Drover's Weibd, 74 
 
 What a First Settler Told Me, - - . lOO 
 Abner's DeyicEi ..«•*•• -142 
 
 I 'H 
 
f 
 
 1 
 t 
 
 & 
 
 I 
 
h 
 
 JEANIE MORISON. 
 
 CHAPTER I, 
 
 Only those who have lived in a cold coun- 
 try, like Canada, can realize the p: .surable 
 sensations which attend the opening^ ji Spring. 
 The weary monotony o! Winter, iclth it? un- 
 varyiii^ aspect of white fields, and of cold so 
 lutense as to make exposure painful, ^ives way 
 to freedom and life, and with some such feel- 
 ings as stir the heart of the prisoner, when he 
 exchanges his darksome cell for the sunshine 
 and green fields, does the dweller of Canada 
 hail the time when the snow-banks disappear 
 and when he can, without wraps, move whether 
 he will in the genial atmosphere. It was at 
 that grateful period of the year when the 
 simple incidents I am going to relate took 
 place. 
 
 Amid the unbroken forest which covered the 
 connty of Huntingdon in the year 1819, a log 
 
 2 
 
 ^i 
 
1 1 
 
 (T 
 
 2 GLEANER TALES 
 
 shanty was to be seen on the west bank of Oak 
 Creek, at a point where the beavers had, by 
 their industry, fornaed a small meadow. The 
 shanty was rude as might be, of unsquared 
 logs, with a roof of basswood split into slabs, 
 and a stick chimney. The interior consisted 
 of a single room, and a small one at that. The 
 inmates were a mother and daughter. The 
 mother, engaged in spinning, sat in the sun- 
 shine which streamed through the open door, 
 brightening the few poor pieces of furniture 
 it fell upon and whitening still more the heaps 
 of ashes in the open fire-place, behind which 
 smouldered a huge back-log. She had evi- 
 dently passed her GOth year, while the pressed 
 lips and look of patient reserve told of the 
 endurance of a life-long sorrow. 
 
 *Dae ye no see or hear ocht?* she asked, 
 looking through the doorway to the woods 
 beyond, to which she often turned her eyes. 
 
 'No, mother,' replied the girl addressed, who 
 was sitting on the doorstep. 
 
 'What can hae come ower him T said the wo- 
 man in a low voice. 
 
 'Dinna fret ; he'll be here soon,' said Jeanie 
 in a tone that spoke more of a desire to com- 
 fort h^r mother than faith in her Btatement 
 
JEANIB KORISOK' 
 
 As if not heeding her, the n.other resumed, 
 'He said he would be back last nicht, and he 
 should hae been. I sair misdoot ill has befaen 
 him/ 
 
 It was of her husband of whom she spoke. 
 He had worked all winter for a party of Ameri- 
 cans, who were culling the best of the timber 
 along the banks of the creek, and had gone 
 two days before to aid them in driving the 
 logs to the point on the Chateaugay where 
 they were to be formed into rafts and thence 
 taken to Quebec. On the morning of his de- 
 parture his last words had been that he would, 
 at the latest, be back the following evening 
 and it was now the third day. 
 
 Jeanie strained her eyes and ears to catch 
 tbe remotest sign of her father's approach. 
 The quaver of the grey-bird and the chirrup of 
 the chipmunk came occasionally from the re- 
 cesses of the woods, which lay steeping in the 
 April sunshine that glorified everything, but 
 no rustle of branch or cracking of dried stick 
 that would indicate an approaching footstep. 
 The ripple of the usually silent creek, as now, 
 swollen by the melted snow, it lapped its 
 banks in pursuing its tortuous course, formed 
 a soothing lullaby to the genial day ; and that 
 
W^mmSmSkintMB^m 
 
 4 
 
 OtEAKER TALES 
 
 I ! 
 
 i 
 
 great peace, to be found only in mountain re- 
 cess or forest depth, brooded over the scene. 
 But there, where all the influences of Nature 
 were so soothing, were two hearts filled with 
 anxious care. Oh, God of heaven, how comes 
 it that thou hast made the world so bright and 
 beautiful — everything, to the meanest weed, 
 fulfilling its destiny — but thy highest creation, 
 Man, alone so dark, so miserable in his short- 
 comings, — the jarring element in a universe of 
 order. 
 
 'Jeanie,' suddenly exclaimed the mother, after 
 a long pause, and staying the whirr of the 
 wheel, 'you maun gang and seek your father. 
 Gae down to Palmer's and there you'll find the 
 rafts, and the men will tell you whether he left 
 for hame or no.' 
 
 'But I dinna like to leave you, mother, and I 
 am sure you are troublin' your head ower 
 much. He'll be here gin dark.' 
 
 The mother understood the affectionate mo- 
 tive of her child in trying to make light of her 
 fears, but well knew her anxiety was no less 
 than her own. 
 
 'Say nae mair, my lassie, but gang while 
 there is time for you to get back. You ken 
 the yarn for the Yankee wife at the Fort is 
 
JEANIE MOKISON 
 
 o 
 
 ready and that there is no flour until he gangs 
 there for it' 
 
 Casting one long eager glance down the 
 creek, along which her father should come, the 
 girl turned in from the door and made ready 
 for the journey. Her preparations were easily 
 made. The slipping on of her stoutest pair of 
 shoes and throwing a plaid over her arm, as a 
 hap from the cold after sunset, comprised them, 
 and, bidding her mother not to fret, for she 
 would bring back good news, she started. She 
 did not follow the creek, but struck northward 
 across the peninsula that forms the township 
 of Elgin, her design being to reach Trout Kiver, 
 as being more fordable than the wider Chateau- 
 gay. The path was, probably, at first a deer 
 run, which the few who had travelled it, chiefly 
 lumbermen, had roughly brushed. Only one 
 accustomed to the woods could have kept the 
 track, for, to a stranger's eye, it differed little 
 from the openings which ever and anon ap- 
 peared among the trees. Jeanie, however, was 
 no novice to the path or the bush, and she 
 stepped quickly and with confidence on hev 
 y^&y. She had walked fully an hour beneatl^ 
 );he solemn gloom of the primeval forest, whei^ 
 she saw an opening q.head, aud Ipiew she w^ 
 
 '■ I 
 
 i 
 
 ^lU 
 
6 
 
 GLEANEB TALES 
 
 approaching Trout River. On reaching it, she 
 followed its bank, until, with one end grounded 
 in a little bay, she found a large log. Grasp- 
 ing the first straight stick she saw lying about 
 to serve as a pole, she pushed the log from its 
 anchorage, and, stepping on it as it moved, 
 guided it across the narrow river. From the 
 liability of the log to roll, such a mode of 
 ferrying is dangerous to those unused to it, but 
 Jeanie knew how to place her feet and keep 
 her balance and she speedily gained the other 
 bank and resumed her journey. On reaching 
 the place where the two rivers unite, she could 
 not, despite her anxiety, help pausing to admire 
 the beautiful expanse of water, which, unruffled 
 by a breath of wind, lay glassing itself in the 
 sunshine, while the forest, which rose from its 
 margin on either side, formed no unfit setting. 
 Presently she saw a ripple upon its surface, 
 and her keen eye perceived the black head of 
 a muskrat, which was making its way to the 
 opposite bank. While she followed the rapid 
 movements of the little creature, there was the 
 fiash and smoke of a gun before her, and, while 
 the woods were still echoing the report, a dog 
 jumped into the water to bring in the rat, 
 which now floated dead upon the current. A 
 
it, sbe 
 unded 
 xrasp- 
 about 
 om its 
 noved, 
 m the 
 ode of 
 it, but 
 i keep 
 3 other 
 aching 
 » could 
 admire 
 iruffled 
 in the 
 "om its 
 letting, 
 iurface, 
 lead of 
 to the 
 3 rapid 
 ras the 
 , while 
 , adog 
 ^e rat, 
 at. A 
 
 JEANIE MOBISCN 7 
 
 few steps brought Jeanie to the marksman, 
 who was a thin, wiry man, of rather prepos- 
 sessing appearance. His dog had returned and 
 laid the rat at his master's feet, who was 
 encouraging him with exclamations of 'Good 
 dog ! good dog r when he caught sight of Ler. 
 
 'Waal neow, who would a thought it ? Miss 
 Jeanie herself and nobody else. How do you 
 do V And stretching forth his sinewy arm, he 
 grasped her hand in a clutch that would have 
 made a bear shed tears. 
 
 'Ob, I'm weel, thank you, Mr Palmer, and 
 my mother is tae, but we're in sair trouble.* 
 
 'Don't say the old man is sick V and an 
 anxious look passed over th§ kindly face of the 
 honest Yankee. 
 
 'Oh, dear sir, we dinna ken whether he's sick 
 or weel. He left hame Monday morning and 
 was to be back last nicht and he hasna come 
 yet, and I've come to speer after him and get 
 help to find him gin ye dinna ken whaur he is.' 
 As she spoke there was a tremor in Jeanie's 
 voice, and a tear glistened on her drooping 
 eyelashes. 
 
 'Ha, do tell ; that is serious,' and the hunter 
 leant upon his rifle and gazed abstractedly 
 upon the river, as if trying to conjecture what 
 
 ii 
 
 
■HiflW"^ 
 
 8 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 I i 
 
 could have become of the lost man, uDtil, 
 noting Jeanie's evident distress, he roused him- 
 selfi and, exhorting her to keep up heart, led 
 the way to his house. 
 
 'You see,' he said, as they scrambled along 
 the rough path by the river's edge, 'there ain't 
 much to shoot yet and what there is ain't 
 worth killing, but I kinder felt lonesome to 
 be about doors so fine a day, and I took a stroll, 
 tho' all I came across was that mushrat, which, 
 darn its skin, ain't worth the lead that killed 
 
 it; 
 
 'Gin the shooting is puir, the fishiog will be 
 guid,' said Jeanie, who humored the spirit of 
 the keen huntsman. 
 
 'Couldn't be better,* answered Mr Palmer, 'I 
 speared seven salmon at the foot of the rapids 
 last night, and this morning I drew my seine 
 full of as pretty fish as you would want to clap 
 your eyes on.' 
 
 The sound of rushing water told of their ap- 
 proach to the rapids, at the head of which, on 
 a knoll a few rods to the left, stood Mr Palmer's 
 house,* which was a comfortable log one, over- 
 
 *So I«te Bi 1865 the cellar and foundation-walls were 
 easily traced. They were thoughtlessly levelled and with 
 them disappeared all trace of the first house in the Tillage 
 of t|unt|D^don, 
 
JEANIE MORISON 
 
 9 
 
 shadowed by majestic pines. Oq entering, they 
 found Mrs Palmer, a rather delicate-looking 
 woman, engaged in baking. Uttering an ex- 
 clamation of surprise at the sight of Jeanie, 
 she wiped her dusty hands and gave her a 
 cordial welcome, as well she might, for the 
 visits she had received from members of her 
 own sex, since she had taken up her abode by 
 the Chateaugay, might have been counted on 
 the fingers of one hand, without exhausting 
 them. On learning the cause of Jeanie's 
 journey, she received the tidings with the same 
 anxious look as had her husband. Evidently 
 both entertained the worst forebodings, while 
 both had a delicacy in speaking of what they 
 believed to be the cause of his absence. 
 Neither had seen him, but the party he had 
 helped were now forming a raft half a mile 
 below the house and it was arranged that Mr 
 Palmer should go and see them while Jeanie 
 should wait. Her hostess resumed her baking, 
 when Jeanie, feeling the heat indoors oppres- 
 sive on so fine a day, stepped out and sat on a 
 log, near enough to keep up the conversation 
 yet sufficiently far to enjoy the balmy atmo- 
 sphere and the beauty of the scene before iier. 
 And here, before attempting to describe it^ let 
 
 r^" I 
 
 i( 
 
■*WM 
 
 10 
 
 QLEAKER TALES 
 
 ! 
 
 US tell what manner of woman Jeanie was. 
 She had that first quality of a handsome girl, 
 stature — she was tall, with a form instinct with 
 life— lithe and graceful, which, when matured 
 by age, would become dignified also. She had 
 no pretension to beauty, beyond what the 
 liveliness of youth and a sweet temper can 
 give to the countenance, but still her well- 
 formed mouth, gray eyes, a forehead broad tho' 
 not too high, and a wealth of light brown hair 
 went to form a face that was pleasant to look 
 upon. She had been once at Palmer's house 
 before, but its surroundings were still sufii- 
 ciently novel to engage her even in her present 
 distracted frame of mind, for, as became a 
 Scotchwoman, she had a keen relish for what- 
 ever is beautiful in Nature. Above, and until 
 directly opposite her, the Chateaugay came 
 sweeping, with graceful curve, a wide, unruffled 
 sheet of water, until suddenly it fell over a 
 rocky ledge and became a mass of foaming 
 rapids, which brattled between banks, covered 
 by trees and overhung by hazel bushes, until 
 lost to sight by a sharp bend a considerable 
 distance below.* Being at flood height, the 
 
 *These npids are still beit known to old tettlers as 
 **P«lmer'f npids." The qnarrying of them for bnildiog 
 parpeses has greatly changed their appearance. 
 
JEiKIB MOBISOK 
 
 11 
 
 rapids were seen at their best, and Jeanie 
 never wearied admiriog the graceful sweep of 
 the smooth water as it neared the ledge that 
 preceded its fall, or the tumult of breakers into 
 which, a moment after, it was tossed. It 
 flashed upon her that the river was, perhaps, 
 to prove a true type of her own and her 
 mother's fate, — the even tenor of their life 
 hitherto was about to be suddenly broken by 
 her father's disappearance, and then the water, 
 tossed from rock to rock, broken into spray 
 and driven in every direction, except upward, 
 would too truly represent their life hereafter. 
 Raising her gaze to the south, she saw the 
 forest rise in swelling undulations until they 
 melted in a range of smooth-moulded hills, 
 which, blue and soft in the sweet Spring sun- 
 shine, brought back to memory the dear old 
 hills of her native land, and joy mingled with 
 her sorrow. 
 
 The afternoon wore away apace and still Mr 
 Palmer did not return. Above the noise of the 
 rapids she could hear, now and then, the shouts 
 and cries of the lumbermen as they heaved the 
 logs informing their raft, and whom Mr Palmer 
 had gone down to see. Having finished her 
 household duties and spread the supper on the 
 
12 
 
 QLEANEB TALES 
 
 table, Mrs Palmer sat down beside Jcanie and, 
 with kindly craft, by talking of commonplace 
 matters, strove to divert her mind. By-and* 
 by the appearance of a fine pointer, the same 
 that had swam to the rat, indicated the 
 approach of Mr Palmer, who, when he came 
 up to them, leading his eldest girl, a chattering 
 child, seemed in no hurry to answer the ques- 
 tioning eyes of the two women. 
 
 'Blessed if the dog don't scent a partridge,' 
 said the worthy man, as he watched the 
 pointer creeping to a clump of underbrush to 
 the right. 
 
 'Bother the partridge,' exclaimed Mrs Palmer, 
 'what did the men tell you?' 
 
 'Waal, they ain't jest sure, you know, but 
 they guess 'tis all right,' and as he drawled out 
 the words slowly and reluctantly, Jeanie could 
 see that he was far from thinking it was all 
 right. 
 
 'Ob, sir,' she said, 'you are a father yourself 
 and you are as dear to your child as she is to 
 you. Tell me the warst, and be done we it' 
 
 'Don't take on Jeanie ; it may be all right 
 yet Your father helped to tote the logs to 
 the mouth of the creek, and left them, well and 
 strong, to walk home last night I rather con- 
 
JEANIE MORISON 
 
 13 
 
 jecture he lost his way, but he will be home by 
 this time.' 
 
 This was all Mr Palmer seemed disposed to 
 tell, and| hoping for the best, she tried to share 
 in her host's affected confidence as to her 
 father's safety, and followed him in answer to 
 his wife's call 'That supper was ready.' A 
 capital cook, and having a larder to draw from 
 replenished by the gun and rod of her hus- 
 band, Mrs Palmer, in honor of her guest, had 
 spread a table that contrasted painfully with 
 the meagre fare which Jeanie had to submit to, 
 and made her think of the poor mess of boiled 
 corn of which her mother would then be par- 
 taking. After supper, the canoe was launched, 
 and bidding farewell to her hostess and her 
 little girl on the river's bank, Jeanie stepped in, 
 when, propelled by the paddle of Mr Palmer, 
 it began steadily to stem the current. 
 
 Who that has undergone the agonized suffer- 
 ing of sorrowful apprehension has not noted 
 how every trifling incident that may have 
 occurred during that period has become im- 
 printed indelibly upon the memory ? The 
 watcher by the sick-bed, over which death 
 hovers, is puzzled how, at a time when the 
 miad is absorbed with one thooght, the per- 
 
 il 
 
 b j! 
 
 \:i 
 
—--<•» -^^VKS 
 
 u 
 
 GLEAKBB TALES 
 
 I I 
 
 cepiioQS should be so sharpened as to note 
 events and objects, down to the very furniture 
 and pattern of the wall-paper, which on ordi- 
 nary occasions leave no trace upon the memory. 
 On that April evening Jeanie's mind was 
 laboring under this intensified acnteness, and 
 while brooding continually over her father's 
 probable fate, to her dying day she remembered 
 every feature of the scenery she was now pass- 
 ing. The smooth flowing river, swollen and 
 discolored by the melted snow from the hills, 
 hemmed in on either bank by a thick growth 
 of trees, many of which, as if enamored with 
 the beautiful sheet of water by which they 
 grew, bent over it until, in their leafy prime, 
 their branches almost kissed its surface. Now, 
 tho' leafless, their tops were gilded by the 
 setting sun, which filled the still air with 
 the lambent haze which distinguishes the 
 evenings of early Spring in Canada, while, 
 looking beyond the forest to the south, Jeanie's 
 eyes rested on Mount Lyon, whose crests, re- 
 vealed by the level shafos of sunlight, were seen 
 to be still silvered with the snows of winter. 
 Keeping to the Chateaugay at the forks the 
 canoe stole silently beneath the shadow of the 
 overhanging trees until the mouth of Oak 
 
JEANIE MORISOir 
 
 16 
 
 note 
 liiure 
 
 ordi- 
 mory. 
 was 
 I, and 
 ither'a 
 ibered 
 r pass- 
 n and 
 e hills, 
 growth 
 d with 
 fi they 
 prime, 
 
 Now, 
 by the 
 ir with 
 ios the 
 
 while, 
 Jeapie's 
 )st9, re- 
 ereseen 
 
 winter, 
 ffks the 
 w of the 
 of Oak 
 
 creek was reached, when Jeanie stepped ashore 
 to parsne her way on foot to her home. Before 
 bidding her goodbye, Mr Palmer paused and 
 said: *Now, you keep up a good heart for 
 whatever may happen, and we'll be up to* 
 morrow to search the woods. Give that to 
 your mother and — Qod bless you/ Without 
 givibg her time to say a word, he pushed his 
 canoe into the stream and speedily glided out 
 of sight, leaving Jeanie standing on the bank 
 perplez<iu by what he had said and holding 
 the basket he had thrust into her hands, which 
 contained a loaf of bread and a string of fish. 
 With a heavier heart than ever, she began to 
 trace her way homeward by the creek. Once, 
 in that lonely journey she thought she saw her 
 father walking ahead of her, and once she 
 thought she heard his voice. She called out 
 and paused to listen for a reply. The only 
 sound that reached her was the dismal croak- 
 ings of the frogs. Knowing that her imagiua- 
 tion was deceiving her, she hurried on and, 
 when she caught the first glimpse of light 
 gleaming from her humble home, she saw the 
 form of her mother waiting for her return. 
 'Tou hav'na found him, Jeanie V 
 'No, mother ; and he basna oome bame T 
 
 I ii 
 
Iirrr 
 
 II i w f JW n ^ . 1 
 
 16 
 
 OLEANCK TALES 
 
 'What can hae come ower him f exclaimed 
 the mother, as she sank into a seat by the open 
 fireplace. 
 
 It was remarkable that in their conversation 
 no conjecture was hazarded by either as to the 
 probable fate of the missing one. Both, plainly, 
 entertained the same painful surmise, which 
 they were alike ashamed to breathe. They sat 
 by the glowing backlog for many hours, hoping 
 against hope that the wanderer might return, 
 until Jeanie, overcome alike by fatigue and 
 anxiety, sought her bed. Once she awoke 
 during the night, thinking she heard a voice. 
 She listened in the darkness. It was her 
 mother wrestling with God on behalf of her 
 father. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Early next day, Jeanie and her mother saw 
 a short, stout man emerge from the woods. 
 He was a stranger to them, but his aspect indi- 
 cated he was a lumberman. He had a towsy 
 head of reddish hair and a matted beard and 
 wh'skers of the same hue. 
 
 'A pleasant day, ma'am,' he said, in a voice 
 so soft and insinuating, and contrasting so 
 strikingly with the roughness of his appear- 
 
JEANIE MORISOX 
 
 17 
 
 [claimed 
 ihe open 
 
 rersation 
 us to the 
 I, plainly, 
 e, which 
 They sat 
 s, hoping 
 it return, 
 igue and 
 le awoke 
 i a voice, 
 was her 
 alf of her 
 
 other saw 
 le woods, 
 pect indi- 
 d a towsy 
 beard and 
 
 in a voice 
 rasting so 
 lis appear- 
 
 ance, that Mrs Morison was somewhat startled. 
 'It is, indeed, a fine spring' day/ she replied. 
 
 'And the water is high, ma'am, and the rafts 
 are getting away finely — oh, very finely,' and 
 the man stood complacently eyeing the mother 
 and daughter, and rubbing his hands. 
 
 'Hae ye seen ocht o' my husband?' Ye'll 
 hae come about him ?' 
 
 'Oh, my dear ma'am, don't fret; take it 
 coolly and comfortable like.' 
 
 'I see ye ken aboot him ; oh, dinna play wi' 
 [me, but tell me at once.' 
 
 Not in the least discomposed, the little man, 
 tin more oily tones than ever, replied, 'Well, 
 I well, ma'am, there is no denying it, accidents 
 [will happen, you know. You shouldn't be 
 (apposing the worst, and taking it easy, for' — 
 
 Before he could finish his sentence there was 
 iheard a heavy trampling in the woods, and 
 [soon there came from beneath their cover half 
 
 dozen men, four of them carry irg a burden 
 laid on two poles. They walked in silence to 
 the door of the house, and then Mrs Morison 
 
 bw their burden was her husband. She 
 matched away the red handkerchief that 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 covered his face, a glance at which showed her 
 he was dead. She gave a shriek that resounded 
 through the forest, and fell senseless upon the 
 corpse. 
 
 The career of the dead man may be told in a 
 few words. He had been the son of a small 
 farmer in the south of Scotland, a strapping, 
 lively fellow, who won the good graces of the 
 daughter of a .draper in the neighboring village. 
 Her parents opposed her keeping company 
 with him, not merely because his circumstances 
 were indifferent but because his habits were 
 not of the steadiest, he being fond of convivial 
 gatherings, at which, more than once, he had 
 got overcome by drink. Their opposition 
 seemed only to strengthen their daughter's 
 affection for the free-hearted, good-tempered 
 young fellow, and the upshot was, that one 
 morning she was not to be found, and before 
 evening they learned she had been married. 
 The imprudent match resulted as the parents 
 had anticipated ; the young man was unequal 
 to the task of supporting a wife and his habits 
 did not mend. Moving to a mining village, he 
 got work as a laborer, and out of his scanty 
 earnings a large percentage went into the till 
 of the whisky shop every Saturday night, so 
 
wred ber 
 sounded 
 ipon the 
 
 told in a 
 r a small 
 trappingi 
 es of the 
 ig village, 
 company 
 imstances 
 bits were 
 co'uvivial 
 e, he had 
 [)ppo8ition 
 daughter's 
 -tempered 
 , that one 
 md before 
 D married, 
 he parents 
 as unequal 
 his habits 
 village, he 
 his scanty 
 ito the till 
 ly night, so 
 
 JEANIE MORISON 
 
 19 
 
 that his wife, to eke out a living, had to exert 
 herself to do something also. Quietly and un- 
 complainingly she took in sewing, washed, or 
 spun, as opportunity offered, to earn an honest 
 ehilling, and did what lay in her power to keep 
 things decent. Children came but none lived 
 to maturity save Jeanie. The village was 
 unhealthy, its murky smoke and fumes were 
 not favorable to childhood, typhus was a 
 regular winter visitor, and, more than all, the 
 narrow means at her disposal afforded not the 
 necessaries of life in that abundance that chil- 
 dren need, so, to her heart-sorrow, one after 
 another was taken away. Time passed, and 
 I her father died, leaving ber a small legacy, and 
 with this she determined they should emi^ 
 grate. She fondly thought were her husband 
 removed from his boon companions, were all 
 [his old associations broken, and he transplanted 
 |into a new sphere, that he might reform. 
 [Often had she striven with him, often had 
 lope kindled in her bosom that he was going 
 io keep the good resolutions he so often 
 Formed ; always doomed to bitter disappoint- 
 lent. To emigrate was the last chance, it 
 )emed to her, and for Canada they accordingly 
 liled. Deplorable to relate, on the day of 
 
lui 
 
 20 
 
 QLEANER TALES 
 
 M ' 
 
 their arrival at Quebec her husband got help- 
 lessly druDk with several of his fellow-passen- 
 gers who went to take, as they termed U, a 
 parting glass, and before he got over his spree 
 the greater part of their little stock of money 
 was gone. Instead, therefore, of being in a 
 position to go to the Upper Province and take 
 up land, as intended, he had to engage, at 
 Quebec, with a lumberman who was getting 
 out masts and square timber on the Chateau- 
 gay, and thus it came that, three years before 
 the opening of our narrative, he had made a 
 home, a poor one as we have seen, in what is 
 now the township of Elgin. Although their 
 privations were great, Mrs Morison did not 
 regret the change from the dirty, squalid, 
 mining village in Scotland to the lonely woods 
 in Canada. Her husband had fewer opportuni- 
 ties of getting drink and, on the whole, they 
 lived happily. Possessing a superior education 
 herself and having moved, previous to her 
 marriage, in respectable society, she brought 
 up her daughter very differently from what 
 might have been expected from their circum- 
 stances, and Jeanie, despite her home-made 
 dress, had acquirements and manners that 
 ^Q^ified hedr tb mOVe in any station of life. 
 
 ^ 
 
^ 
 
 JEANIE MORISON 
 
 21 
 
 help- 
 Bissen- 
 1 h, a 
 
 spree 
 noney 
 
 in a 
 i take 
 ge, at 
 [ettiDg 
 ateau- 
 before 
 nade a 
 7hat is 
 their 
 id not 
 qualid, 
 
 woods 
 ortuni- 
 e, they 
 acation 
 to her 
 )rought 
 Q what 
 circum- 
 le-made 
 rs that 
 
 oMifo. 
 
 As already stated, on the Monday morning 
 Morison had gone to assist in running logs out 
 of the creek. The evening of the succeeding 
 day his employer settled with him for the 
 season's work, and, in addition to the small 
 balance of wages that was coming to him, gave 
 him a few pieces of pork to take home, and, 
 fatal parting gift, a bottle of rum. He left the 
 raftsmen in high spirits, an able-bodied if not 
 very active man, taking the track that led 
 to his humble dwelling. What followed no 
 human eye witnessed. He never reached his 
 home, and the searching-party that morning 
 had discovered his body a few yards from the 
 creek, lying stretched upon the ground, with 
 his face immersed in a pool of water — a pool 
 only an inch or so in depth, left by the melting 
 of the snow and gathered in a cavity formed 
 by the roots of a tree. Had he, when he 
 stumbled and fell, moved his head ever so 
 little, he would have breathed and lived. The 
 more than half empty bottle, found in his stony 
 grasp, showed he had been too overcome to 
 have stirred a hairsbreadth, and there, in a 
 little basin of water, so small that a squirrel 
 could have leaped it ; so shallow that a robin« 
 }n nruning his wings, could have stepped 
 
' T^vvmfS ^ 
 
 22 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 through without wetting a feather; this tall, 
 powerful man, before whose axe the loftiest 
 pines had fallen and whose vigorous oar had 
 stemmed the rapids of the Cbateaugay, had 
 ignominiously met his death, within hail of 
 the faithful wife and loving daughter who 
 were anxiously waiting his return. Jeanie, in 
 going home the preceding evening, had uncon- 
 sciously passed within a few feet of the body 
 which once contained her father's spirit. On 
 finding it, damp from the exposure of a day 
 and two nights, the searching party had made 
 the remains as presentable as possible, and sent 
 on ahead one of their number to break, as 
 gently as might be, the news to the wife and 
 daughter. With what success he, who was 
 chosen on account of his smooth tongue, ac- 
 quitted himself, the reader knows. 
 
 So long did Mrs Morison remain in her 
 swoon, that once the dreadful thought darted 
 through Jeanie*s mind that she was not going to 
 recover, and that, at one fell swoop, she was to 
 be deprived of both parents. She did not in- 
 termit her exertions, however, and while 
 bathing the rigid temples she rejoiced to see 
 the flush of returning animation. Slowly did 
 Mrs Morison raise h^.rself to a sitting position, 
 
JEANIE MOBISON 
 
 23 
 
 ,his iall, 
 I loftiest 
 oar bad 
 ray, had 
 I hail of 
 ter who 
 eanie, in 
 d uDCon- 
 he body 
 irit. On 
 of a day 
 lad made 
 , and sent 
 break, as 
 wife and 
 who was 
 ngue, ac- 
 
 n in her 
 ht darted 
 )i going to 
 he was to 
 id not in- 
 nd while 
 ced to see 
 llowly did 
 y position. 
 
 and looked, in a dazed manner, as if wondering 
 why they were there, at the rough lumbermen 
 grouped around her, who stood in silence and 
 with the awkwardness of people who were 
 anxious to help but did not know how. Un- 
 consciously she moved her head round from 
 one to the other until her glance fell upon the 
 body of her husband. Recollection returned 
 in a flash, and drawing the inanimate form on 
 to her lap she pressed the bloated and dis- 
 [colored features to her lips. 
 
 'Oh, Willie,' she exclaimed, unconscious in 
 
 I her overwhelming passion of sorrow that there 
 
 Iwas a listening ear, 'lang did we ken ane 
 
 mither and braw and gallant were you ance ; 
 
 ly pride and joy. Sair hae oor trials been 
 
 ind mickle hae ye been misguided, but aye 
 
 faithfu and true to me. Oh, that I had been 
 
 4' you ; oh, that ye had given me your last 
 
 :iss and deed in my arms. There hae been 
 
 them wha despised you, wha tauld me to leave 
 
 rou ; little did they ken o' the love that bound 
 
 \Q to you. Oh, that we should hae been 
 
 thus !' 
 
 Here she paused, and turning her eyes to 
 
 [eaven, she slowly and reverently said : — 
 
 [erciful Qod, as in your wise decree you have 
 
**M»l»^M-,,«,^ _ , 
 
 24 GLEANEB TALES 
 
 been pleased to bring this affliction upon me, 
 grant, in your p^*v, that I tarry not long be- 
 hind him whom ye have taen awa.' 
 
 This solemn petition calmed the tumult of 
 her mind, and rising to her feet she said 
 modestly — 
 
 *You will excuse me, freens, for taking on uae 
 sairly afore you, but I couldna help it ; this 
 misfortune has come so sudden. I thank you 
 for what you hae dune, and, gin it be your 
 pleasure, as you can do nae mair noo, to leave 
 us aiane and come the morn to bury him wha's 
 gone/ i 
 
 The red-whiskered man seemed about to| 
 make a voluble reply, when he was cut short] 
 by a stalwart lumberman, in whose eye there 
 glistened a tear, with the remark, *Yes, ma'am, 
 we are at your service and mean to do all we 
 can for you.' Then, looking to his comrades, he 
 said, 'Let us go,' and, turning abruptly, he led 
 the way, leaving the mother and daughter 
 alone with their dead. i 
 
 CHAPTER III. j 
 
 It is true in the moral world as in the^ 
 material that after a storm comes a calm. Thej 
 
JEANIS MORISOX 
 
 25 
 
 agony of suspense, the wild burst of passionate 
 sorrow had swept over them, atiT, the morning 
 succeeding the discovery of the remains found 
 mother and daughter composed and resigned. 
 The worst was now known, a worst there was 
 no remedying, and so they bowed, without 
 needless fret or repining, beneath the trial. 
 The sun had risen in an unclouded sky and his 
 beams were warmer than on the preceding 
 days, and as they came pouring down unstint- 
 ingly on the glancing waters of the creek and 
 the uplifted branches of the forest, it seemed as 
 if summer was nigh and the buds and leaves 
 and green sward would speedily succeed the 
 birds whose noisy concert had ushered in the 
 dawn. Everything had been arranged in its 
 humble shanty with all the deftness of order- 
 loving hands ; on one side of it, beneath a white 
 cloth, being decently arranged the corpse. Mrs 
 Morison was seated on the chair at the win- 
 dow; Jeanie sat at her feet on the doorstep. 
 
 *Wasna father a braw man when you first 
 foregathered V 
 
 'He was the handsomest lad in the country- 
 side; a very pleasure for the ee to rest on. 
 Little dae they ken what he was like that 
 didna see him then, and a kinder or truer heart 
 
GLEANER TALES 
 
 couldna be. 0, Jeanie, I just worshipped him 
 when we were lad and lass.' 
 
 'Bui your father didna like him ?* 
 
 'Binoa put it that way, Jeauie. He liked 
 him but he saw a faut in him that spoiled a*. 
 I was wilfu ; I said he would gie up the com- 
 pany he keepit when he was merrit, and that 
 it was guid-fellowship and no the bottle that 
 enticed him. I dinna say that I regret what I 
 did, or that my lot hasna been as guid as I 
 deserved — Qod forgive me that I should repine 
 or say an unkindly word 'o him that lies there 
 — but young folks dinna lippen to their parents 
 in choosing partners as they ocht to do.' 
 
 'Hoots, mother ; when a lad or lass hae found 
 their heart's love what for suld father or 
 mother interfere V 
 
 'Easy said, Jeanie, but think ye there is ony 
 body in the wide world loes son or dochter as a 
 parent does ? They are as the apple o' their 
 ee, and his or her happiness is all they seek. 
 Dootless there are warld's ' worms o' parents 
 who look only to the suitor's gear and wad 
 break off the truest love-match that ever was 
 gin he were puir. I dinna speak o' them, for 
 they are out o' the question. But take parents 
 by ordinar, wha only see)^ theiir bc^irQs' welfare, 
 
JEANIE MOBISON 
 
 27 
 
 and the son or dochter wha disregards their 
 advice in choosing a life-mate will hae mickle 
 to repent o\* 
 
 *l dinna see hoo that is/ said Jeanie, 'for 
 surely their marriage concerns only them- 
 selves V 
 
 'True in a sense, Jeanie, that as we mak oor 
 bed we maun lie on't Think ye, tho*, o' a 
 parent's experience, that nae glamor o' love 
 blinds their ee, that their haill concern is for 
 their bairn's happiness, and that they may see 
 fauts in the would-be partner o' their child 
 that can only result in meesery. 'Soung folks 
 shouldna think their parents are obstinate or 
 stupid when they oppose their marrying this 
 ane or that ane. In maist cases they hae gnid, 
 solid reason for their opposition, and the son is 
 foolish that winna get his parents' consent 
 before he gangs too far and the dochter silly 
 indeed wha says 'Yes* without taking counsel 
 o' her mother/ 
 
 'Oh, but that wadna dae always,' replied 
 Jeanie, deprecatingly, as if such a course would 
 rob love of its romance. 
 
 'Come, noo, Jeanie, tell me what better 
 adviser can a dochter hae than her mother, and 
 hasna the father a ripbt to hae some say in a 
 
Wm\ 
 
 28 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 mfttch seeing thai, if it disna turn out weei, he 
 may hae a useless son-in-law to sorn on him or, 
 in his auld days, hae his dochter or a tawpy of 
 a son's wife come wi' a wheen bairns to seek 
 shelter in his hame? Na, na, the first com- 
 mandment wi' promise requires obedience in 
 this as in ither callings o' life, and happy is the 
 wedding whaur the true love o' the young 
 couple is crooned wi' the blessings (given with- 
 out a misgiving) o' their parents, for there is, 
 then, a reasonable prospect that the match will 
 prove what a' should be — a heaven upon earth.' 
 'Mightna the parents be mista jn, mother?' 
 'Aye, and so might the lad or lass themsels, 
 and far raair likely that the young should err 
 than the auld. Had I taen the advice baith 
 my father and mother pressed on me, advice 
 that came frae their life-long experience o' the 
 warld and their affection for me, it wad hae 
 been dififerent — no that I regret for mysel but 
 for you, Jeanie, ih&h maun grow up in this 
 wilderness, and f^r your brithers and^ sisters 
 that hae gane to a better land.' And, here, as 
 the remembrance of the years of poverty and 
 of wretchedness of daily life caused by her hus- 
 band's intemperate habits flashed upon her, she 
 burst into tears. 
 
'^m 
 
 JEANIB MORISON 
 
 29 
 
 weei, he 
 him or, 
 awpy of 
 to seek 
 rst com- 
 ience in 
 )y is the 
 9 young 
 en with- 
 there is, 
 Eitch will 
 )n earth.' 
 )therr 
 bhemsels, 
 lonld err 
 ice baith 
 e, advice 
 ice o' the 
 wad hae 
 aysel but 
 in this 
 d sisters 
 , here, as 
 erty and 
 her hus- 
 1 her, she 
 
 'Ob, mother,' exclaimed Jeanie, as rising and 
 standing beside her she clasped her bowed 
 head to her bosom, 'dinna tak on so. I wadna 
 hae had it otherwise, and wad suner hae bided 
 wi' you than had the queen on the throne for 
 my mother. We hae been very happy for a* 
 that has come and gane, and sae will we yet. 
 Were it to part us, I wadna marry the best 
 man in a' Canada ; I will aye be wi you and 
 will aye be obedient to your will.' 
 
 'I ken that, my bairL, but,' said the mother, 
 raising her tear-stained face, 'promise me this 
 — and it is a promise that him wha lies there 
 wad hae backed, for sair he kent his ain faut — 
 that, nae matter hoo ye may be drawn to him, 
 you will never marry a man that likes his 
 glass/ 
 
 *I promise,' said Jeanie with simple so- 
 lemnity, and drawing up her graceful figure to 
 its full height, she, as if anxious to break off 
 the subject, turned to get a wet towel, with 
 which she wiped her mother's face, 'for,' as she 
 remarked, 'ye maun be decent when the folk 
 come.' 
 
 It was well nigh noon before any of the 
 visitors made, their appearance. la the then 
 unsettled si&to of the dotinti)* nbws i^t^ad 
 
wmmsmmmmmmmsmB 
 
 BdkBinvnaani^ 
 
 fSnS 
 
 GLEANEB TALES 
 
 slowly even when messengers were sent out 
 expressly to carry it, and the walking through 
 the bush was so bad that even those who were 
 only a few miles away were long in coming 
 with all f^he speed they could make. And 
 everybody came that heard of the melancholy 
 occurrence, for in those primitive days, when 
 only the young and healthy inhabited this 
 section of country, deaths were so extremely 
 rare that a funeral was regarded as an im- 
 portant event, which nobody missed. Strag- 
 gling in from different points they came in 
 twos and threes, except the lumbering-party 
 with whom the deceased had been connected, 
 and who appeared marching up the creek, 
 carrying the coffin — a rude box of unplaned 
 boards — with Mr Palmer at their head. Two 
 features in the attendants was very noticeable, 
 one being that hardly a man among them had 
 a coat, the other the fewness of the women. 
 The men, grent brawny fellows in home-made 
 shirts and pants fastened by belts, gathered in 
 clusters in the clearing to exchange news and 
 talk over the circumstances attending the 
 event that had brought them together, while 
 the women went into the house. The sun was 
 sinking fast towards the West before the 
 
 4 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
JEAKIE MORISON 
 
 u 
 
 ent out 
 Lbrougb 
 tio were 
 coming 
 B. And 
 ancboly 
 r», when 
 ted this 
 Ltremely 
 an im- 
 Strag- 
 came in 
 ag-party 
 mnected, 
 e creek, 
 inplaned 
 d. Two 
 )ticeable» 
 hem had 
 women, 
 roe-made 
 bhered in 
 ews and 
 ling the 
 er, while 
 sun was 
 fore the 
 
 preparations necessary for the burial were 
 completed. When the word went round that 
 the grave was ready, one by one they fyled 
 into the house to take a last look of the face of 
 their late neighbor, after which the lid of the 
 coffin was nailed down. There was no clergy- 
 man to be had at the time and among those 
 present there was no one inclined, even if 
 capable, to conduct religious services. If the 
 solemn observances on such occasions were ab- 
 sent, those present had not come unprepared to 
 maintain a custom which in those days was 
 universal in Canada, and, for all the writer 
 knows, may still be in the Mother Country — 
 that of passing a glass of liquor before lifting 
 the coffin. One of the men with a jar in one 
 hand and a tin cup in the other, went round 
 the f.8sembled company, tendering the filled 
 cup to each, which it would have been bad 
 manners to refuse and which nearly all emptied 
 before returning. When all out of doors had 
 been helped, the man, a well-meaning, ki-'dly 
 fellow, stepped intc the shanty to legale X ^ 
 inside. Thinking it good manners, he pressed 
 to wher«) Mrs Morison was sitting and, de- 
 liberately filling the cup to the brim, tendered 
 it to her first. 
 
> 
 
 I 1 
 
 ■■MlJlJl.lllMIWm MIB 
 
 32 
 
 GLEANER lALES 
 
 Mrs Morison gave him a pierclog look. 
 'What r she exclaimed Id a low voice, so em- 
 phasized by deep feeling that every word sunk 
 into the minds of those present; 'What! Do you 
 ask me to take that which has murdered my 
 husband ^* 
 
 'Take a taste, ma'am/ said the red-whiskered 
 man, who was in the room, 'it will do you 
 good.* 
 
 *Do me good T she re-echoed, 'then it will be 
 for the first time in my life. That do me good 
 that took away the bread for lack o' which my 
 baimSp noo saints in glory, perished ! That do 
 me good that robbed my husband of his useful- 
 ness and good name ; that made him fit for 
 only orra jobs and to be despised as a drunkard I 
 That do me good the love of which supplanted 
 his love for me, for it was the stronger o' the 
 twa or wad he no hae left it alane for my sake ? 
 That do me good that filled his bosom with 
 remorse, which hurt his health, and, last of all, 
 has taen his life ! Oh, that it hasna caused the 
 loss of his soul ; that, in the moment of his 
 passing breath, he found time to seek accept- 
 ance with God fqr the I(3deemer's sake I Take 
 it it away,' she spreamed with the energy of 
 otiB wbt) BliHaks a^ thb sight of a eita^k^ take 
 
 '■*::f 
 
■« 
 
 JEANIE MOBISON 
 
 33 
 
 look, 
 so em- 
 d sunk 
 Do you 
 red my 
 
 liskered 
 do you 
 
 ', will be 
 me good 
 hich my 
 That do 
 is useful- 
 ia fit for 
 runkard ! 
 pplanted 
 rer o' the 
 my saket 
 lom with 
 ist of all, 
 skused the 
 \t of his 
 k accept- 
 e! Take 
 energy of 
 ike, Oakte 
 
 «. 
 
 it away, and may the curse of the widow and 
 the orphan rest upon them that make and sell 
 it— .wha tempt decent men to destruction in 
 order that they may have an easy living/ 
 
 Abashed at so unexpected a reception, the 
 man continued to stand stupidly before her, 
 holding the cup and jar. Seeing his puzzled 
 look, Mrs Morison said in a composed voice, 'I 
 ken you mean it kindly, and sae far I thank 
 you, but, gin you think o' it, you will see that 
 the bottle may be your worst enemy and they 
 jare safest and happiest who leave it alane. As 
 la favor, freen, I ask you no to offer it in this 
 [house.' 
 
 A few minutes afterwards the coffin was 
 
 [borne out of doors, when four lumberers lifted 
 
 lit on to their shoulders, and, leading the strag- 
 
 [gling procession, walked to the grave, which 
 
 lad been dug on a knoll close to the creek, the 
 
 mly spot that could be found convenient suffi- 
 
 a%)y free of trees and their roots. When the 
 sotiifi \ '1^ lowered, each man lifted his hat for 
 
 t >omeTi t, and then the grave was filled in. 
 
 With thoughtful kindness those who came 
 
 ill brought some gift of food to replenish the 
 
 ^Jow's larder, and now, while all the rest 
 
 l.^rted| the lambermen remained, until sun- 
 4t 
 
 1 1 
 
 [■ ii 
 
: 
 
 u 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 set, chopping firewood and putting the house 
 and its surroundings to rights, so that, before 
 they laid down to sleep that night, Mrs Morison 
 and Jeanie included in their prayer thanks to 
 Qod for having so bountifully provided for 
 them. 
 
AN INCIDENT OF HUNTINGDON FAIR. 
 
 A LOST CHILD. 
 
 It was wearing on to three o'c7i>ck on the 
 irst clay of the fair, and the crowd was at its 
 leight. At a corner of the show-building, 
 
 rhere the throng was thickest, f^tood a child, a 
 rirl of some four summers, sobbing, not loudly 
 )r obtrusively, but with her face buried in her 
 linafore. The passersby, too intent upon their 
 ^wn pleasure, took no notice. of her, until a 
 ^aunt, elderly man halted in front of her with 
 [he query, 'What are you crying for V *For 
 
 lama,' said the child raising her tear-stained 
 
 ice from behind her pinafore. 'Don't you 
 
 :now where she is?' 'No,' sobbed the little 
 [ne, 'she's goned away,' and here her grief 
 
 roke out afresh. Attention being thus directed 
 the child, the standers-by grew interested, 
 long them were two young ladies in rather 
 
 ^ud costume. 'Quess she's lost,' remarked one 
 them. 'Want to know V replied the other. 
 
 an*t she s^oeif 'Som6; shobid siiy her 
 
 II 
 
^6 
 
 GI.EANEH TALES 
 
 mother don't know much ; such a looking hat.* 
 'You mightn't do better, Ethie.' 'I'd be sick if 
 I couldn't.* — 'Well, what's to be done ?' asked 
 the man who first noticed the child. 'Has 
 anybody seen anybody looking for a little girl?' 
 Nobody had, and then suggestions as to what 
 should be done were volunteered. 'Ask her 
 name V was one of them. 'What's your name, 
 sissy ?' 'Roose,' sobbed the child. 'And where 
 do you live V 'With mama.* 'And where does 
 she b'va?' 'At home.* 'That's not the way to^ 
 ask ner/ exclaimed a brawny young man,j 
 whose lowest whisper would startle a horse, 
 and bending over her he asked, 'How did 
 mama coma to the fair V 'With me and Toby.'| 
 'Is Toby your father?' 'No,' said the child, 
 smiling through her tears, 'Toby 's a dear little 
 dog.* 'Did mama walk to the fair?' 'We'si 
 drove in a wagon and Toby too, ever so long 
 ways.* 'What's the name of the place where j 
 you came from?' The question was beyond j 
 the child, who simply shook her head. 'Don'! 
 bother her,* interjected a bystander, 'get yourl 
 wagon and drive her round the ground and the| 
 mother will see her.' 'I can't very well,* sai( 
 the youth with the loud voice. 'My horse has! 
 got the goorum, and I want to watch the shee] 
 
AN INCIDENT 
 
 37 
 
 ing hat.' 
 be sick if 
 V asked 
 Id. 'Has 
 t tie girl?' 
 to what 
 Ask her 
 our Dame, 
 nd where 
 vhere does 
 he way to 
 ung man, 
 e a horse, 
 How did 
 and Toby.' 
 the child, 
 . dear little 
 ir?' 'We's^ 
 ^er so long 
 )lace where I 
 7B.S beyond j 
 ad. 'Don'! 
 ', 'get yourj 
 ind and the| 
 r well/ saic 
 y horse ha9| 
 h the fiheei 
 
 judges.' 'Well, take her home with you ; 
 you've neither chick nor child.' At this a 
 laugh rose, and suggestions as to what should 
 bo done, each more senseless and impracticable 
 than another, began again. To send her to 
 Grahamie as lost baggage, to seat her in the 
 centre of the horse-ring, at the head of the 
 show-house stairs, with the band, or among the 
 fancy articles, where her mother would be sure 
 to go, were among the more reasonable. Each 
 one was clear that it was the duty of somebody 
 else to exert themselves to find the inother, 
 and each one was equally clear he was not 
 called upon to do it. And so piecious time 
 was slipping, and what to do with the child 
 remained undecided. At this juncture, a short 
 and somewhat stout woman broke through the 
 ring. 'Hech, what's a' this about ? A lost bairn, 
 say ye.* Bending over, she lifted the child, 
 and sitting down on a bench pressed her to her 
 bosom. 'My bonnie doo, and hae ye lost your 
 mammie! Wha ocht ye?' The child, with 
 staring eyes, answered not. 'You might as 
 well speak Greek,' grimly remarked the gaunt 
 man. 'Eh, what's that ! Do you think she 
 (disna understan the English language? Na, 
 ; na, thae bonny blue een are no French. An 
 
 %. ^ 
 
38 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 hoo did you lose yer mamiaie, my pet V 'Mama 
 gave me penny to get candy, and Toby ran 
 after other dog, and I tried to catch Toby but 
 he runned a long way and was bad, and — and 
 — I couldn't find mama or Toby/ and the recol- 
 lection of her misfortune renewed her grief. 
 '£h, ma wee bit lady/ exclaimed the good- 
 hearted woman, as she pressed the sobbing 
 child more closely, 'but heo are we in this 
 thrang to find Toby or yer mither either. 
 Hech but her heart will be sair for the loss o' 
 ye. Will na some o'ye gang and see if ye 
 canna fin a woman lookin fi>r her bairn, instead 
 o' gapin there at us like so mony gomerils/ 
 
 'If you'll give me ten cents I'll go/ said a 
 pert boy. 
 
 'Ha, ha, my man, ye'll be a Conservative ; ye 
 want an office.' 
 
 'There's the president/ remarked one of the 
 bystanders. 
 
 'What ! yon black-a-vised man wi the bit 
 red ribbon ? Hey, Mr Praseedent ; come yont : 
 I want yer advice/ 
 
 'What's this ; what's this ?' asked the presi- 
 dent. 
 
 'Jist a lost bairn, an hoo to fin the mother 
 o't I dinna ken.' 
 
AN INCIDENT 
 
 39 
 
 'Mama 
 'oby ran 
 oby but 
 id — and 
 be recol- 
 er grief, 
 e good- 
 sobbing 
 in ibis 
 eitber. 
 e loss o' 
 e if ye 
 , instead 
 rils/ 
 / said a 
 
 bive; ye 
 
 e of tbe 
 
 tbe bit 
 le yont : 
 
 le presi- 
 
 motber 
 
 p . - 
 
 r 
 
 I 
 
 r 
 
 'Couldn't be in better bands/ said the presi- 
 dent. 
 
 'She micht be in waur, tho I say't mysell. 
 But that's no what I'm drivin at. Hoo am I 
 to get her mither !' 
 
 'Ob, that's not hard to do. You have seen a 
 lamb lose its mother, but did you ever see the 
 ewe that failed to fiud her? You just sit 
 where you are, and tbe mother will come 
 along.' 
 
 'I've seen the ewie seek her bit lammie ower 
 knowe and heugh an never fail to find the 
 wanderer, but what could she do were as mony 
 auld tups thranging roun as are here ? Na, na; 
 yer comparison winna stan, Mr Praseedent. 
 Jest tell me what I'm to dae, an no be stanin' 
 there twirlin yer whisker.* 
 
 'Well, I'll tell you what to do. Take the child 
 home with you ; she is tired and not fit to stay 
 here longer. The mother will be sure to come 
 to the office, and I will know where to send 
 her. I'll take your address,' and he pulled out 
 his notebook. 
 
 Glancing at the child, which had fallen 
 asleep in her bosom, the woman kissed the 
 peaceful little face, and replied, 'that's gude 
 advice. Everybody kens me. I'm Mrs Crowdie> 
 
 i- 
 
 Hi 
 
40 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 and I live on the 
 
 concession of Hinchin- 
 
 brook, and if ye want to ken mair o' me ye can 
 speer at that decent man, Mr Herdman, yonner, 
 wha lifts my taxes, an as oor waggin will be 
 ready, I'll gang noo. Sae gude day to ye/ 
 
 Tired with the day's fatigue and grief, the 
 child did not wake until the wagon halted at 
 Mrs Crowdie's door, when, seeing everything 
 new and strange, she cried a little for her 
 mother, but was easily soothed, and, on supper 
 appearing, she forgot her little sorrows in satis- 
 fying her appetite. Though Mrs Crowdie had 
 much to do 'in settin things to richts,' as she 
 termed it, about the house, and scolded her 
 man-servant for 'thinkin mair o' what he saw 
 at the fair than o' his wark,' she found time to 
 lavish much attention on the waif, so curiously 
 left on her hands, and beguiled the smiles to 
 her cheeks by kindly arts. When it grew 
 dark, she cried for her mother, but accepting 
 Mrs Crowdie's promise that 'she would see her 
 the morn,' and that she would 'let pooshack 
 sleep with her,' she lisped her artless prayer at 
 her knee and, laid in bod, dropped into the 
 land of Nod with her arms around Mrs 
 Crowdie's big black cat. 
 
AN INCIDENT 
 
 41 
 
 A NEEBOR LADDIE. 
 
 Little Roose was up by times next morDing, 
 and thought it grand fun to help Mrs Crowdie 
 to milk, to feed the poultry, and to get break- 
 fast ready. Everything was new to her, and 
 eojoyed with such a zest as to show that it 
 was her first taste of country-life. To keep 
 her company, Mrs Crowdie had sent word to 
 her neighbors to let their son come and play 
 with her, and by-and-by Johnnie made his 
 appearance, and the two had a rare time of it. 
 It was in the afternoon, when tired with play, 
 and to rest and enjoy the pieces Mrs Crowdie 
 gave each of them, they snuggled down behind 
 a clump of trees in the orchard. 
 
 'When I'm a man, Boose, I'll have sugar on 
 my bread like this all the time.' 
 
 'When you're a man, will you have a horse ?' 
 
 *Yes; two of them and whiskers too.' 
 
 'And a farm like this ?' 
 
 'A bigger farm than this, an' a big house an' 
 a buggy, an' pigs an' sheep.' 
 
 'And may I come to see you ?' 
 ^'You'll milk the cows and make butter.' 
 
 'Will it be long time beforeyou're a man ?* 
 
 ...j 
 

 ir 
 
 42 GLEANEK TALES 
 
 * When I'm growed ; two or three 3^ ear ; I'm 
 eight now.' 
 
 'How do cows make butter V 
 
 *My, don't you know 1 It ain't the c 
 that make the butter, it's the girls.' 
 
 'And will you show me when I'm big V 
 
 *Yes, an lots o' things.' 
 
 'My mama has no cows.' 
 
 'Ain't she ! Why, my dad has lots o* em and 
 a bull, too.' 
 
 'I'd be afraid.' 
 
 '0, you are not a man like me. I could fire 
 a gun an shoot a bcv^r.' 
 
 *Has God cows?' 
 
 'Why, He makes em, an the horses, an the 
 elephants, an every thing. Don't you go to 
 Sabbath school V 
 
 'No.' 
 
 'My ! I went when littler than you, an learnt 
 heaps 0' things, an got raisins and candy at 
 Christmas.' 
 
 •Without a copper ?' 
 
 'Qim me for nothing.' 
 
 'My.' 
 
 'I was to have spoke a piece but got afraid.' 
 
 a wouldn't be 'fraid.' 
 
 'Oh, that's nothing ; you're a girl.' 
 
AN INCIDENT 
 
 43 
 
 ear; Tm 
 he c 
 
 o' em and 
 could fire 
 
 js, an the 
 ou go to 
 
 , an learnt 
 candy at 
 
 rot afraid. 
 
 Here the conference was broken by Johnnie's 
 offering to show where the ground hogs kept 
 house, and off he and his companion trotted to 
 a remote stone-pile, and did not turn up until 
 supper time, when they burst in upon Mrs 
 Crowdie with the appetite of hawks, and the 
 little girl so full of the wonders she had seen 
 that her tongue never rested until she became 
 sleepy. When laid away for the night, Mrs 
 Crowdie sat in the gathering gloom to think 
 over what she should do. The day had passed 
 without any one coming to enquire for a lost 
 girl, which very much surprised her. So far 
 as her own inclinations went, she would rather 
 nobody ever came, but she knew that some- 
 where a poor mother's heart was in agony over 
 the loss, and she resolved that, next morning, 
 after breakfast, she would drive to Huntingdon 
 to find out if there had been any enquiries. 
 
 A SHADE OF MYSTERY. 
 
 With many injunctions to Roose, that she 
 was to 'be a guid bairn till she got back, an no 
 go near the soos or the wall,' Mrs Crowdie 
 next day betook herself to the village, where 
 she arrived in due course and went first to the 
 oflBce of the president to^find out whether he 
 
 \ 
 
 It,. I 
 
 II'::- 
 
 
 — O 
 
i! Hi 
 
 ! Ill I 
 
 ■'t 
 
 ii! 
 
 WW 
 
 liiillllllll 
 
 44 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 bad heard aught. Entering shd spied through 
 the net-work that suroiounted the counter a 
 man in his shirt-sleeves leaning over a desk 
 writing, with his head turned away from her. 
 
 *Hey, man !' No response. 
 
 *Whar will T find your maister V No re- 
 sponse. 
 
 'Whatna ticket is this?* as her eye here fell 
 on a card bung to the wire-netting, and she 
 spelt out slowly, *This —is— my— busy— day.' 
 'Fegs, by the looks o' him I should say it is. 
 Hey, man f No response, the man of the big 
 lodger calmly continuing to write. 
 - *Eh, puir chiai 1* exclaimed Mrs Crowdie, 'he 
 mauEL hae a hard maister or be dull o' hearin/ 
 and she thereupon rattled on the counter with 
 her umbrella. 
 
 'Oh, were you wanting me. Want to pay 
 your church seat, eh ?* 
 
 * What na kirk ? St Andrew's, say ye ? Na, 
 no, I dinna gang there. Dod ! You dinna need 
 to have a seat in ony kirk, for there are a kin 
 o' bodies that ca' themselves ministers noo a 
 days. Says I to ane that pit maist impertinent 
 questions to me about my saul — an wi Scotch 
 folk dinna show our hearts to every Jock and 
 Tarn— My raan, ye pit me in mind o' a finger- 
 
AN INCIDENT 
 
 No re- 
 
 ere fell 
 nd she 
 —DAY.' 
 y it is. 
 the big 
 
 die, 'he 
 hearin/ 
 er with 
 
 to pay 
 
 3? Na, 
 la need 
 :e a kin 
 s noo a 
 3rtinent 
 Scotch 
 ack and 
 , finger- 
 
 post, ye pint the way ye d:nna gang yoursel. 
 
 Ye see. I kent ocht o' hira. 
 
 the 
 
 of 
 
 'That's a good one,* exclaimed the man 
 the pen as he rubbed his left arm. 
 
 'Gin I had my way, there wad be a riddle 
 afore every college door to try the coofs wha 
 wad wag their heids in a poopit. I ken o' 
 some chuckle heads it wad throw aside.' 
 
 *Not a bad idea. And what can I do for 
 you 1 You'll want an organ V 
 
 'Me an organ ! I'd sun er tryst a parritch 
 
 pat.' 
 
 'It's a nice thing to have a little music, and 
 the young ladies soon learn to play.' 
 
 'I'se ken ye noo. I saw ye at the show. Ye 
 can blaw a horn but ye canna blaw my lug. I 
 want to see your maister.' 
 
 'What name?' 
 
 'My name's Mrs Crowdie ; kent by her 
 neebors as ane that pays as she buys an is due 
 naebody.' 
 
 'Oh, yes, I have a memorandum. The boss 
 left word you were not to trouble yourself; it 
 would be all right.* 
 
 'I'll gang hame we nae such assurance. I 
 have come ane errand to see him and I wull 
 see him.' 
 
 11j 
 
I f/^'FW 
 
 mmsm 
 
 I iiij|i 
 
 46 
 
 GLEAKER TALES 
 
 i 
 
 ti < 
 
 pi 
 
 *We had a fine show, Mrs Crowdie V 
 
 ' Whaur*s yer maister T 
 
 'What did you think of the flowers T 
 
 *Whaur's yer maister V 
 
 * Oh, it's the boss you w*^nt.' 
 
 'Ay, an I'll no gang till I see him/ 
 
 Calling a chubby-faced lad, he sent him in 
 search, and the desired gentleman soon entered. 
 
 'And how are you to-day, Mrs Crowdie V 
 
 'I've naething to complain o' except o' sin 
 an a touch o' the rheumatics/ 
 
 'And what can we do for you today V 
 
 'Ye ken weel my errand, an I see by yer 
 man ye've something y 3 dinna want to tell me. 
 Wha's bairn is she ?' 
 
 'We'll speak about that by -and-by.' 
 
 'We'll speak about it noo.* 
 
 'Is tb*^ little girl wdU V 
 
 'The lassie's weel an I'd be laith to part wi 
 her did I no ken there are they wha hae a 
 better richt to her. Noo, tell me ; what hae 
 ye learned about her folks V 
 
 'There have been some enquiries ; her people 
 know that she is safe.' 
 
 'Wha are they ? I'll gang an see them.' 
 
 'There's no need. You go home and you'll 
 hear from them/ 
 
AN INCIDENT 
 
 47 
 
 A good deal of conversation followed, but 
 Mrs Crowdie could get no particular informa- 
 tion about the parents, further than that they 
 were satisfied she was in safe hands, and they 
 would call or send for their child in a short 
 time. Forced to be satisfied with this, she 
 returned home, and when Koose threw her 
 arms round her neck in welcome, she could not 
 forbear the secret wish that the parents might 
 never come. There was some mystery and she 
 hoped it might result thus. She watched the 
 child pattering out and in all afternoon, listen- 
 ing to her prattle, and helped to amuse her, 
 and when the evening gathered, and the sun 
 set beyond the forest, leaving the clouds burn- 
 ing in crimson and gold, she sat with her in 
 her lap. Something in the peaceful scene 
 stirred up old memories, and, with thin and 
 quavering voice, the old woman began the 23rd 
 psalm. To her surprise, the child chimed in, 
 knowing both the words and the old-world 
 tune Mrs Crowdie sang them to. 'Wha taught 
 ye that, ma dawtie V she asked, as, finishing 
 the psalm, she hugged the child in closer em- 
 brace, and the moisture glistened in her eyes. 
 'Mama,^ said the child. 'She maun be a guid 
 woman, and a Fr«;^bytte1:ian tod.' And clasping 
 
OLEANEH TALES 
 
 the child, Mrs Crowdie sat thiDking in silence 
 and did not move until it grew chill, when she 
 said 'the bairn micht catch cauld/ 
 
 THE MYSTERY IS CLEARED UP. 
 
 The section of Hinchinbrook in which Mrs 
 Crowdie lives is a very pleasant one to look 
 upon ; the landscape being relieved from mon- 
 otony by low knolls and ridges which break 
 the wide intervals. In the middle of Septem- 
 ber, the bush, that runs as a straggling and 
 somewhat ragged fringe over the ridges, was 
 still green, with only here and there a branch 
 or tree whose brilliant red foretold the coming 
 glory. The day was bright and warm, the 
 sun's rays being chastened by the faint smoky 
 haze that softened the distant features of the 
 landscape. Her work being over until milking 
 time came round, Mrs Crowdie took a s';at by 
 the open window and began knitting. Herj 
 little charge had gone to watch a preposterous! 
 hen, which, after being given up as havingj 
 furnished supper to a fox, had appeared thatj 
 morning clucking with joy over the solitary! 
 chicken that followed her; the yellow hairy] 
 little thing being a source of delight to the 
 child. While Mrs Crowdi^'s fingers moved 
 
AN INCIDENT 
 
 49 
 
 1 silence 
 ?hen she 
 
 1 
 
 hich Mrs 
 J to look 
 •om snon- 
 Lch break 
 
 Septem- 
 gUng and 
 dges, was 
 I a branch 
 be coming 
 learm, the 
 int smoky 
 res of the 
 ,U milking 
 : a s At by 
 ;ing. Her 
 •eposterous 
 
 as having 
 leared that 
 le solitary 
 How hairy 
 ght to thej 
 ew moved 
 
 actively with the needles, her thoughts were 
 wandering away to the past. The advent of 
 the child had stirred her nature and wakened 
 imemorieS; she knew not how, that she had 
 stifled so long ago that she thought they were 
 [dead. And to judge by her face, they were 
 [not pleasant memories. Casually raising her 
 lead, she was astounded to see a woman stand- 
 ing at the door intently watching her; a 
 jomely woman, neatly dressed. 
 
 'What's brocht you back?' demanded Mrs 
 )rowdie, breaking silence. 'I told you I was 
 lune wi' you ; that gin ye had made yer bed, 
 ^ou could lie on it.' 
 
 '0, mother!' ' 
 
 *Na, ye needna beg; gin that useless man ye 
 rad marry in spite o' me, has failed to provide 
 )r you, you mrun look for help anither gate.' 
 
 *I have not come to beg; we have nade ends 
 leet so far.' 
 
 'Ay, by your wark, A fauchless, smooth- 
 >ngued haveril ; hoo he threw a glamor ower 
 
 I ken na.* 
 
 'You are too sore on him.' 
 
 'Ower sair ! A useless being that wad talk 
 
 flee round the kintry, an dae onything but 
 
 irk. To think that ye wad prefer sic na ane 
 
 1 iT 
 
 
50 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 i ! 
 
 ! I 
 
 'm 
 
 II 
 
 to yer ane mither, you ungrateful hussy. But 
 its aye the way; the best o' women get the 
 laveins o' men.' 
 
 *It*s not for me to listen to such talk of my| 
 husband/ said the daughter, coloring. 
 
 *A bonny husband ! Marry 't ye, thinking i 
 he could hang up his hat in my hoose and sorn 
 on me. My certie, I sorted him ! Gang bact 
 to yer husband an wark yer finger-nails aff to 
 make up for his laziness. You made yourj 
 choice, an I'm dune with baith you an him.' 
 
 Resentment struggled in the breast of the] 
 young woman with affection; it was for a| 
 moment only, her better nature triumphed. 
 
 *I have not come, mother, to ask of you any- 
 thing but your love and' — 
 
 'An what ?' asked the mother, in a voic«j 
 shrill from suppressed emotion, 'Did I no nestlel 
 you in my bosom an care for you as dearer! 
 than my life? When, ane by ane, your brithersj 
 an sisters gaed awa an you were left the ael 
 lam oot o' the flock, when God in his providence! 
 took your faither to Himsel an I was left alanej 
 it was you that gied me heart to wrastle wi 
 the warl, an I watched ower you an thocht youl 
 wad be a prop to my auld age. Oh, hoo could] 
 ye have the heart to leave me V 
 
AN INCIDENT 
 
 51 
 
 'I love you better than I ever did, mother, 
 but you wouldn't think much of me as a wife 
 were I to say I did wrong in marrying/ 
 
 'Ah, there it is ; the shaffling creature wi his 
 sleek manners that cam between you an me/ 
 
 'Oh, mother ; leave that alone. I am sorry 
 to have vexed you to-day. I never meant to 
 trouble you, until you saw fit to send for me 
 or I thought you needed my help.' 
 * An what has brocht ye, then V 
 'I've come for Ruth/ 
 
 The old woman sank back in her chair in 
 speechless astonishment. At last she whispered 
 'An she's your bairn ! I thocht there was some- 
 thing aboot her that was familiar to me: that 
 I explains it a'. She's yerself ower again when 
 lye were a bit toddler. that thae days were 
 [back again ! An hoo did ye lose her V 
 
 'It's six years since I left you, mother, an my 
 [heart wearied among the Yankees to see dear 
 [old Huntingdon again. I watched the Qleaner 
 hrhen the show was to be, and arranging to be 
 away a fortnight I came with Ruth and stayed 
 [with cousin on the river. I saw you at the 
 ihow, but you did not see me. In the crowd I 
 post Ruth. I was here and there seeking for 
 ler, when a man told me he had seen a little 
 
 »t 
 
 I 
 
 th. \ 
 
52 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 4 
 
 girl, dressed like mine, in a wagon that drove 
 towards the village. I followed, but could find 
 no trace, and thinking she had driven home 
 with our friends, I hastened to cousin's, but 
 she was not there. What a night I spent! 
 Next morning I went back to the show- 
 grounds, and was struck dumb when the presi- 
 dent told me where she was. I explained it I 
 all to him. He was very kind and said if I j 
 would leave it in his hands he would manage j 
 it; when you came in he would get you put oil 
 for a day or two. Last night he sent me word 
 things had worked well, and I was to go out to 
 you myself. If there is any plot about it to 
 bring us together without your will, it's none 
 o' mine,' and sinking before her mother she| 
 buried her head in her lap and wept. 
 
 What Mrs Crowdie would have done; 
 whether her resentment would have returned 
 and she again have driven away her daughter, 
 God alone knows, but at this juncture the 
 patter of little feet was heard on the gallery { 
 and Ruth, with her pinafore full of golden-rod, 
 came shouting, *See what I have got.' One| 
 glance at the tearful face upraised to see her, 
 and there was a glad scream of ' Mama.' Clasp- 
 ing her child and grandchild in her arms, Mrs I 
 
AN INCIDENT 53 
 
 Crowdie broke down. 'It's the Lord's wark; 
 nano save Himsel could hae brocht us thus 
 thegither, an I'se no fecht against His will. 
 By a lost child I've found my ain, an we'll 
 never pairt. Ay, my bonny Ruth, I'm your 
 grannie, and j^e'll bide wi me, an help to tak 
 care o' the hens an the turkeys, and the lave.* 
 'And papa.' 
 
 'I'll thole him for your sake ; maybe I have 
 wranged him in my prejudices. We'll sen for 
 him.' 
 'An Toby, too V 
 
 'That's cousin's dog, Ruth,' said her mother, 
 smiling in her joy. 
 
 'Ay, Ruth,' said Mrs Crowdie, 'we'll get the 
 Idowg too, and we'll let byganes be byganes and 
 begin a new life an ther'll no be a happier 
 I family in a' Hinchinbrook. Eh, hoo true's the 
 Scripter in mair senses than ane. An a little 
 [child shall lead them. Hech, but this'U no dao. 
 .There's the nock chappin five, an the coos are 
 Icomin up the lane, an' the fire's to kinle. Let's 
 be steerin an get the wark dune an then we'll 
 )iae supper ance mair thegither/ 
 
 .«:.: 
 
Hi 
 
 LOST IN THE WOODS. 
 
 You have heard of my passing a night in 
 the bush, and want me to tell you about it. 
 When we came to Hinchinbrook, fifty years 
 ago, the shanty my husband put up did not 
 stand where this house is, but on a ridge in the 
 centre of the lot. For the first two years we 
 had DO neighbors nearer than half a mile, fori 
 though the lots next us were granted, nobody | 
 was then living upon them. From morning toi 
 dark I saw nothing but the bush that encircled^ 
 our house and the little clearance of blackened 
 stumps. Oh, but it was lonely ! It was worse 
 than a jail, for the prisoner gets a blink out ofj 
 his cell window of the wide prospect withoutJ 
 and of houses and people, but I saw nothing! 
 for several years but trees, and trees, until our 
 clearance so extended that it met that on the 
 east side of our lot, and all at once, we, one fine 
 day, came in sight of a neighbor's house. The 
 second Spring we were on the lot, my husband I 
 left to help to take a raft dowu to the !3asin, 
 
LOST 
 
 55 
 
 leaving me alone with Henry, who was then 
 ^he baby. He expected to be back in four 
 lays, or by the end of the week at furthest. If 
 It had not been that I had so much work to do 
 would have cried my eyes out, it was so 
 
 miserable to be left alone in the woods, and 
 
 ^illiam had never been away so long before. 
 
 'ho four days passed and Sabbath came, but 
 le did not. I got very anxious, and all day 
 pould scarce keep my eyes off the spot at which 
 \e would come out of the bush, and where the 
 [rack from the river crossed our lot, and at 
 light I could not sleep a wink, thinking every 
 
 loment I heard his footstep. Once I was sure 
 heard him moving outside. I got up and 
 )pened the door and called his name. There 
 
 ras no answer, and it was so dark I could not 
 lee a rod off. Lighting a bit of pitch pine at 
 khe fire, I looked again, when there was a rush 
 >f feet and something bounded by me. It was 
 jugar-time and there were a few trees tapped 
 ground the house. The noise I heard was a 
 
 )w deer drinking the sap out of the troughs, 
 knew not what to do. I wanted to go in 
 
 jarch of William, but how could I leave our 
 ^mall stock ? They might starve before I got 
 
 ^ck, and that would ruin us. It happened 
 
 hi 
 
 i 
 
56 GLEANER TALES 
 
 Monday afternoon, just when I had determined 
 to go over to the nearest neighbor and see if I 
 could get some one to go and enquire for my 
 husband, though I knew it would be useless, 
 for every man and boy old enough had gone 
 with the rafts. I was wrapping baby in a 
 shawl, when the door darkened and a strange 
 voice bade me good day. It was that of a 
 young lad from the second concession. Ho 
 was on his way home, and had a message from 
 William. In running Dumochers rapids the 
 raft had bunted on a stone, throwing her crew 
 off their feet. In falling, William's oar had 
 struck his left arm and broken it. I thanked 
 God it was no worse. He had told the boy I 
 was not to be anxious, for he hoped to be able 
 to leave for home in a few days. I questioned 
 the boy, and from what little he told me, I 
 guessed my husband was worse than he let on. 
 My resolution was made ; I would go and see 
 him. The lad said he had to go home first, but 
 promised to come back next mornir ^ sl' 1 teuu 
 the stock until I returned. Befoi jg, I gof 
 him to fell a few saplings for the ^ nng ^ easts 
 to browse on their tops, for the toddjr was 
 nearly done. Then I prepared for my journey; 
 cooking enough to keep the lad while way, and 
 
LOST 67 
 
 baking some cakes to take to my husband. It 
 would be past 5 o'clock ia the afternoon when 
 I was ready to leave, but I considered I would 
 be able to reach the Chateaugay before dark, 
 and once on its banks I would be safe to get a 
 night's rest. With baby in my arms I started 
 brave enough, but had not gone many acres in 
 the woods until I felt I had acted rashly. I 
 had gone over the path only a few times and 
 never alone, so that I was not so well ac- 
 quainted with it as I thought I was, and from 
 the snow having newly melted, it was not 
 as plain as usual. I pressed on unii) T felt that 
 I had walked so far that, if on the right track, 
 I should have reached the river, while I had 
 not even come to the Outarde. The sun-light 
 had long left the tree-tops and the stars had 
 begun to glimmer, when I gave it up, con- 
 vinced that, likely in going to one side to pass 
 a wet spot, I had left the track, and that I was 
 [lost in the woods. Assured I had lost my way, 
 I knew it would be madness to walk farther, 
 land so, while I could see, I picked out a hem- 
 lock knoll, and choosing a big hemlock that 
 [had some cedar bushes growing near, I sat 
 dc yn beneath it. It was not very cold, though 
 ia the clearances I daresay there was frost. 
 
1 
 
 m 
 
 I ij 
 
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 iniiiK!i!!!lllli I 
 
 I 
 
 iltllPlliiilli I 
 
 ' "'■i!!!i!lii!ii!il"" ! 
 
 „„^ ';! 
 
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 >Mim 
 
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 I pilliiii 
 
 ill!! ■ 
 
 
 III! 
 
 58 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 Taking a cake out of my pocket I made my 
 supper. Baby was very good and lay asleep 
 in his shawl. Wrapping him more warmly in 
 the long plaid I had around my shoulders, I 
 clasped him to my bosom and, so wearied was 
 I, that I fell asleep. I awoke with a start. I 
 thought I heard some one calling. I listened 
 and the sound soon came again. It was the 
 cry of a wolf at some distance. Another an- 
 swered from some other part of the woods, and 
 another and another. You have noticed, on a 
 calm night, how, if a dog barks, every dog 
 within hearing answers; it is the same with 
 wolves, only their cries are more varied, 
 ranging from a deep howl to a whine like that 
 of a child in pain. I shuddered for my babe, 
 who still slept on, and, kissing him, resolved 1 
 should die before the brutes would touch him. 
 For a long time I s^t and listened, until the 
 cries died away, from the brutes apparently 
 hurrying to some distant point in pursuit of 
 their prey. I again slept, how long I do not 
 know, but was awakened by something warm 
 pressir.g on my cheek. It was our dog licking 
 my face. I had shut him in the house to be a 
 watch on it, but ho had broken out some way 
 q,nd, scenting my steps, had oveiftakea us. J 
 
 if 
 
LOST 
 
 59 
 
 was so desolate and lonesome, and so glad to 
 have Collie's company, that my heart leaped 
 with happiness as he cuddled down beside me 
 and would not give over licking my hands and 
 face for very joy. I should be ashamed to tell 
 it, but, my dear sir, a good dog is better than a 
 false friend, and Collie was a most faithful 
 beast. After that I slept with confidence, and 
 it was good daylight when I awoke, cold and 
 stiff with my first and last night's rest in the 
 woods, but refreshed and confident. I would 
 not touch more of my cakes, for I wanted them 
 for my husband, so, thanking Qod for pre- 
 serving me so far, I went on my way, baby 
 crowing at^the sight of Collie, as he gamboled 
 around us with joyful yelps. Marking as well 
 as I could from the way his rays fell, where 
 the sun rose, I went North, for I knew that in 
 that direction I would soon come across the 
 Outarde. Sure enough, I had not gone a 
 [quarter of a mile, when I came upon it, flowing 
 I red and full, for it was high water. Knowing 
 I was safe, and that I would quickly come upon 
 one of the settlers by its banks, I hurried on in 
 great spirits, and came out on John Hughes' 
 clearing, and was speedily seated by their 
 blazing log fire at breakfast. My troubles 
 
 I- " 
 
 ! ] 
 
 l> 
 
 i 
 
 • 
 
Nil , "7 
 
 llljiililll 
 
 J I 
 
 I! pjililllli 
 
 I! 
 
 60 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 were now over, and I saw that, instead of going 
 North, I had wandered to the East. A little 
 boy went with me to Strachan's, where I 
 crossed the Chateaugay, and resuming my walk 
 got to the house near Ste Martine, where my 
 husband lay, in the afternoon. It was well I 
 went, for his hurt had brought on a slight 
 fever, and though the habitant's family were 
 kind, they could not nurse him as I did. These 
 were anxious but happy days, for William was 
 overjoyed to have me beside him, and I was 
 glad to be of service to him. In ten days Dr 
 Syme told me he would bear the journey, and 
 getting a cast in one of Reeves's canoes as far 
 as the Portage, we were safe back in our own 
 house before night, to find everything better 
 than we expected. It was a drawback William's 
 arm, for it was some time before he could do 
 hard work with it, but he got over that and 
 many another backset, and, if we are now well- 
 to-do, we have earned all we've got. 
 
THE SETTLER'S FIRST GRIST/ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Late in the Fall of 1817 seven familiei of 
 immigrants settled on the banks of the St 
 Lawrence in Dandee, close to the St Anicet 
 line, and nearly opposite the village of Lan- 
 caster. With one exception, they had come 
 from the Isle of Skye, and they named their 
 settlement after their Scottish birthplace, which 
 was not altogether inappropriate, for the strip 
 of land they had taken possession of was so 
 completely surrounded by swamps as to be, in a 
 sense, an island. Apart from two or three of 
 their number who knew a little English, they 
 spoke Gaelic and Gaelic only. They brought 
 naught beyond strong arms and great en- 
 durance of privation, for their training as 
 crofters and fishermen was of little use in their 
 new surroundings. An untrodden wilderness 
 of forest hemmed in their shanties, which were 
 
 'Appeared first in the Christmas number of the Toronto 
 Qlobe for 1886. 
 
 
 !: , i 
 
 I ■: 
 t 
 
 
m 
 
 llM 
 
 placed by the edge of the St Lawrence, and on \ 
 the other side of the great river were their 
 nearest neighbors, who had shown them the 
 greatest kindness. Highlanders like them-j 
 salves, the people on the Qlengarry side of the 
 river, had taken a lively interest in the new- 
 comers, had made bees to give them a fresh 
 start in life ; crossed over the river to show 
 them how to fell trees, build shantieu, and, 
 moke potash, and when Spring came, had, with 
 true Highland generosity, lent them seed and 
 assisted in brushing it in and planting it amid 
 the stumps of their clearings. In the black 
 mould of the virgin soil the potatoes grew withi 
 an abundance that surprised the Skyemen, 
 though their astonishment was greater at the! 
 luxuriance of the Indian corn, which they saw \ 
 for the first time, and the excellence of the 
 wheat. When the latter was threshed the 
 next step was to get it ground. Their nearest 
 mill was at Williamstown, in the county of| 
 Qlengarry, and to reach it involved a fatiguing^ 
 journey. It was a bright morning, in the first 
 week of October, that one of the settlers placed 
 a bag of wheat in a canoe to go to this mill. 
 It was his first grist — the first in his life of 
 wheat*--and be looked at the bag, as be de* 
 
THE FIRST GRIST 
 
 63 
 
 ice, and on 
 were their 
 L them the 
 like them- 
 side of the 
 1 the new- 
 lem a fresh 
 er to show 
 lantieu, and 
 e, had, with 
 im seed and 
 ting it amid 
 a the black 
 3 grew with 
 8 Skyemen, 
 eater at the 
 ch they saw 
 ence of the 
 ireshed the 
 'heir nearest 
 e county of 
 I a fatiguingl 
 ;, in the first' 
 ttlers placed 
 to this mill, 
 .n his life of 
 ig, as he de 
 
 \4 
 
 posited it carefully in the bottom of the canoe, 
 with satisfaction not unmingled with hones 1/ 
 pride, which was shared in by his wife and 
 children, who came to the water's edge to see 
 him off. Assisted by his son, a handsome 
 young fellow, the paddles were dipped, and the 
 boat was soon skimming Lake St Francis, for 
 so the expansion of the St Lawrence between 
 Cornjrall and Coteau is named. When half- 
 way across they paused to rest, and as they 
 viewed the noble sheet of water, embedded in a 
 setting of bush whose bright colors glowed in 
 the shimmering sunshine of a true Canadian 
 Fall day, they thought they had never seen 
 anything more beautiful. 'And the best of it 
 is, Allan, that the water is fresh and not salt, 
 and/ fixing his gaze on his shanty, which could 
 jhe discerned beneath the trees, *the land is our 
 own, and there will be no rent to pay at 
 Martinmas.' 
 
 When they got to the mill they found there 
 [were other customers before them, and having 
 [to wait their turn, it was nearly dark when 
 [their canoe passed out of the river Raisin into 
 [Lake St Francis on their homeward journey. 
 [The sun had set behind a cloud, and though 
 the lake vras calm its surface had an oily 
 
 II 
 
64 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 il ! 
 
 appearance — both sigDs of a coming change. 
 They had gone far enough to lose sight of thej 
 shore they had left, when a slight swell of the] 
 waters was noticed, and immediately after 
 wards the hollow sound of approaching wind] 
 Both practised boatmen of the Old World, the^ 
 knew what these signs meant. *Had we oui 
 old boat, Allan/ said the father, 'I would not 
 care for the squall that's coming, but thigj 
 cockle-shell will not stand a rough sea. I< 
 may soon blow over. Yonder I think I see tL( 
 light your mother has set in the window t( 
 guide us. We will hurry before the waves ge| 
 big.' Urged by their strong arms, the cano^ 
 flew over the lake, but swifter came the stormj 
 and before many minutes a violent gust oj 
 wind, accompanied by pelting rain, burst upor 
 them. Like all shallow sheets of fresh water! 
 the lake was quickly beaten into a fury, and 
 waves large enough not merely to toss the boa 
 but to drench its occupants were coursing ove: 
 it. The danger of swamping was imminen. 
 when the father's skill averted it. Directing' 
 his son to stretch himself full length in th 
 bottom of the canoe, using the bag of flour as i 
 pillow, it steadied under the living ballast. 
 Then, taking his place at one end, the fathei 
 
ing change, 
 sight of the! 
 swell of the] 
 Lately after- 
 tching wind] 
 World, the: 
 Had we ou: 
 'I would not 
 3g, but thir 
 ugh sea. It 
 link I see tl( 
 Q window t( 
 he waves gel 
 [ns, the canoil 
 ne the storm! 
 )lent gust o| 
 n, burst upoi 
 [ fresh waterf 
 a fury, an( 
 ) toss the boal 
 coursing ove: 
 l^as imminent 
 it. Directin; 
 length in th| 
 cr of flour as 
 living ballast 
 .nd, the fathei 
 
 THE FIRST GRIST 
 
 65 
 
 l^rought the other bow-on to the wind and 
 
 :illfully kept it, by vigorous use of the paddle, 
 
 a line with the waves, so that the canoe 
 
 reasted them, and they slipped under it, 
 
 irdly shipping a drop of water. The fury of 
 
 le squall soon passed, and was succeeded by a 
 
 fcle which blew steadily from the west. With 
 
 iat fine respect for parents which characterizes 
 
 [ighlanders, Allan had offered no suggestion, 
 
 jdiently doing what his father ordered. 
 
 fhen he heard him say to himself 'My God, 
 
 are lost T he exclaimed : *No, father, the 
 
 )rm will blow by, and we will then make our 
 
 ij home this night yet.* 
 
 'Yes, the storm will blow over, but where 
 
 [11 we be then ? You forget, my poor boy, 
 
 it the lake ends in rapids, and we are hurry- 
 
 towards them as fast as wind and wave can 
 
 ive us. Your mother and your sisters and 
 
 others will have sore hearts to-morrow.' 
 
 Jlan had not thought of the rapids. On 
 
 ^ir way from Montreal he had seen them, 
 
 [tched their foaming surges, and knew their 
 
 foe could not live a moment among them. 
 
 thought of death was bitter to him, and 
 
 [the hours passed and they went drifting 
 
 rnwards, amid the storm and darkness, to- 
 6 
 
GLEANER TALES 
 
 wards the jaws of the dreaded danger, his heart 
 was filled with anguish, not alone for his mo- 
 ther, his brothers and sisters, but for her with 
 whom he had secretly plighted troth. 
 
 'Allan, I will shout to you when I see the 
 rapids. Jump and try to make the shore, for 
 it may be near; do not trouble with me, or we 
 both will be lost. Be a good lad to 3'our 
 mother, and tell her and your brothers and 
 sisters my last thoughts were of them.* 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I ! 
 
 Mrs McDonald had tidied up the one and 
 only room of the shanty, and was expecting 
 momentarily the arrival of her husband and 
 son, when she was terror-struck by the sudden 
 sound of the squall among the trees. Hurry- 
 ing from the house, she stood on the beach, on 
 which the waves were beginning to break, but 
 the darkness and rain prevented her seeing 
 many yards. In her agony of apprehension 
 she shouted, in the hope that the missing ones 
 were near; from the stormy waters came no 
 reply. Bidding her children, who had followed 
 her, to go and alarm the neighbors, very soon 
 
THE nmr grist 
 
 67 
 
 every soul in the small settlement was by her 
 side, talking rapidly in Gaelic and excitedly 
 suggesting what ought to be done. They were 
 all agreed that if the canoe was on the lake 
 when the storm burst she was lost, and that 
 the sole hope was that she had not left the 
 other shore. The only other canoe they had 
 was no larger than the one that was gone, and 
 to launch it in order to search the lake, would 
 be to add to the calamity. All that could be 
 done was to build a bonfire on the most promi- 
 nent point, to guide the missing canoe if within 
 sight, and hope for the best. Laying his hand 
 on Mrs McDonald's arm, as she stood wistfully 
 gazing on the now foaming waters of the lake, 
 the oldest man of the settlement said, 'Come 
 with us out of the cold and wet ; we can do no 
 good here.' Gathered in the shanty, the fire 
 was replenished until it roared in the ample 
 chimney, and the neighbors talked hopefully 
 to the family and despondently among them- 
 selves. When the hope that the storm was 
 only a passing squall was dissipated by its 
 settling into a gale, under the influence of 
 which the waves lashed the sandy beach with 
 a roar so appalling that it stifled the groanings 
 of the forest, the men agreed among themselves 
 
 I I 
 
n I 
 
 !' 
 
 68 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 that McDonald and his son were at the bottom 
 of the lake, and their hearts grew sore for| 
 those whom they believed to be widowed and 
 orphaned by the calamity. Fighting with het 
 fears, Mrs McDonald tried to persuade herself j 
 all would come right, and assumed a com- 
 placency she was far from feeling. 'Often/ she | 
 remarked, 'has my husband been out worse 
 nights than this in Scotland, and it is not 
 going to be said that he who could £ght the 
 Atlantic is going to be drowned in a bit fresh- 
 water loch in Canada. To be sure there was & 
 winding-sheet in the candle last night, buti 
 that did not signify, seeing that it was madej 
 from the fat of a wild deer, and not from that| 
 of a Christian sheep. Not one of my family, 
 and it goes far back, Mrs McGillis, ever died 
 without the wraith of Ian Ban, our forbear, 
 who was laird of Glenish, being seen, and it is 
 not to be said he failed to warn me when rav 
 husband and oldest son were near their end. I 
 am not afraid of them. They will be here to 
 morrow — Donald, like a good man, go and sesj 
 that the fire is blazing on the point — and we j 
 must keep our composure. What is that V 
 
 Close to the dwelling rose a prolonged how],| 
 beginning at a low pitch and rising to 
 
THE FIRST GRIST 
 
 69 
 
 he bottom 
 1 sore for 
 lowed and 
 y with hei 
 ide herself 
 ed a corn- 
 Often/ she 
 out worse 
 it is not 
 1 fight the 
 a bit fresh- 
 ;here was c 
 night, but 
 was made 
 t from that I 
 my family, 
 3, ever died 
 )ur forbear, 
 in, and it ia 
 e when my 
 heir end. I 
 be here to- 
 go and see 
 nt — and we 
 s that ?' 
 onged howlj 
 rising to 
 
 piercing climax, the sound of which blanched 
 every face. Those nearest the door opened it ; 
 none ventured out. Every ear was strained. 
 In a few moments the howl was repeated. 
 'Pooh !' said a young man, *it is only a wolf.* 
 
 The incident broke the tension of suspense, 
 
 land one after another began telling stories of 
 
 their old life in Skye, having more or less 
 
 bearing on those they waited for. Thus the 
 
 hours wore away, and it was noted with satis- 
 
 [faction that at the turn of the night the gale 
 
 broke and speedily died away. The waves 
 
 still ran too high for the canoe to be launched 
 
 to attempt to gain the other side of the lake 
 
 [and make enquiries, but they were falling fast. 
 
 When it was agreed it would be safe to go, the 
 
 'settlers again gathered on the beach, which 
 
 jwas reddened by the beacon fire that still 
 
 [blazed. There was unexpected delay; a paddle 
 
 [was found to be broken, and another had to be 
 
 lade, and ere all was ready a faint whitening 
 
 )f the eastern sky told of the coming day. It 
 
 ras a beautiful night, calm and still, the glassy 
 
 iwells of the lake reflecting the sparkle of the 
 
 itars. Many a searching glance was cast across 
 
 the broad expanse for the missing boat, and 
 
 Ireadful apprehensious filled e^cl^ bpsoi^ as to 
 
70 
 
 OLEANEB TALES 
 
 « 
 
 11 !'i |ii' ir 
 
 the secret ihe dark waters kept. The canoej 
 was about to start, the two men going with he 
 had dipped their paddles, and the group on th 
 beach clustered close to see her off, when faint 
 and from afar came over the surface of the 
 lake a plaintiTO sound. Not a word wu 
 uttered, but every ear was strained to catcb 
 the sound. It came again fitfully. Neighbor 
 looked with agony into the blanched face oi 
 neighbor. The one idea possessed them, that 
 it was the dirge of the spirits of their departed 
 friends as they journeyed to the place of souls, 
 The mother impulsively sprang to the wateri 
 edge and cried, 'My Allan, my first-born, is ii 
 you that is calling ? Oh speak to me and teil 
 where in the cold deep I will find you.' 
 
 There was a shriek behind her which froxt 
 every heart. A young woman, the winsomt 
 daughter of one of the settlers, had fallen 
 senseless on the strand. 
 
 The patriarch of the settlement who, at the 
 first sound, had knelt on the sand and placed 
 his ear close to the lake, now rose in steir. 
 reproof. 'Is it thus you welcome Qod's mercj! 
 Your son, Mrs McDonald, and your lover, Flora 
 for so you have just revealed to us he is, f 
 alivp aiid wel|. It ^ W Yom W^$^^ ^M ^ 
 
 -y 
 
THE FIRST GRIST 
 
 71 
 
 The canoef 
 ng with hej 
 roup on ih( 
 ', when fainil 
 face of the 
 
 word was 
 iod to catcl 
 Neighbor 
 ched face ol 
 1 them, that 
 eir departed 
 [ace of Bouhl 
 
 the water's 
 st-born, is ii| 
 I me and tell 
 you.* 
 
 which fro»| 
 the winsoin( 
 I, had fallen 
 
 i who, at the 
 id and placei! 
 rose in steir 
 God's mercji 
 r lover, Flon| 
 us he is, 
 riogtbieibQal 
 
 )Dg of the Isle of Mist, and I hear the plash 
 
 )f oars/ And so it was, for now clear and 
 
 [strong came from the lake the words of the 
 
 )ng, and soon keen eyes could see the ap- 
 )roaching canoe. There was a shout of joy, 
 
 id tears streamed from every cheek. A few 
 
 linutes more and the lost were among them. 
 
 When they had re-entered the shauty and 
 Ibe cup of rejoicing had gone round, Mr Mc- 
 Donald told his story. As time passed, and 
 [the canoe drifted farther down the lake, he had 
 (iven up all hope and expected every moment 
 feel it caught in the strong current that 
 leads to the rapids, and to hear their dreadful 
 
 )und. *I was praying for you in my heart,' 
 
 te said, 'when I heard the sound of breaking 
 
 rater. 'Allan,' I shouted, 'here they are at 
 
 last. Make ready to jump and swim for your 
 
 life.' No sooner said than my paddle struck 
 
 )ttom and I saw trees before me. 'Quick, 
 Jlan, jump and drag the canoe ashore.' We 
 
 )th sprang out at the same time, and catching 
 lold of the canoe ran her through the breakers 
 
 id high on to the bank. We were wet and 
 
 cold, but, oh, we were thankful that we 
 
 ^ere saved. After a while we got up and 
 
 loved roujid to see if a bouse was near^ when 
 
 I ! 
 
 \l 
 
 u 
 
 1 1 
 
 Ji 
 
mm 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 !!!ii 
 
 we found that we were on one of the small 
 islands that lie at the head of the rapids. A 
 few rods one way or another and we would 
 have swept past it and been lost. It was 
 Providence that steered our canoe. Well, we 
 waited patiently till the gale went down, and 
 so soon as we dared we launched out again and 
 rowed homeward. And a long pull we had, 
 but it warmed us.' 
 
 The bag of flour was opened. The water 
 had caked the outside layer, leaving the re- 
 mainder r^uite dry. The flour was examined 
 with interest, being the first from wheat grown 
 in the settlement. 
 
 'Well,* exclaimed the patriarch, *it is time 
 we were in our beds, though it be now good 
 daylight, and we will go to sleep with thankful 
 hearts. And you, Mrs McDonald, we wish 
 well to, for you have this morning found not 
 only the son that was lost, but a daughter you 
 knew not of, and a good girl she is too. There 
 is plenty of land here for all, and we will build 
 them a house and hold our New Year in it, 
 and, please God, we will not again risk life in 
 these French cobbles of canoes, but build a big 
 boat.* 
 
 And so it came to pass. The I^ew Year 
 
THE FIRST GRIST 73 
 
 beheld Flora and Allan made one with a 
 raerry-making that became a tradition in the 
 settlement, their Glengarry friends coming over 
 to it in a drove, and bringing two pipers to 
 supply the music, and when spring came a 
 boat, large enough to carry half a dozen bags 
 of flour, was launched in the cr^ak beside the 
 shanty of William McPhee. ' \ 
 
tiii liii! 
 
 wmsm^ 
 
 m 
 
 iiiiii(i 
 
 THE DROVER'S WEIRD. 
 
 The incident, the particulars of which I am 
 about to relate, occurred when I was a boy. 
 Reared in a sequestered glen in Perthshire, 
 Scotland, where events of absorbing interest 
 are of rare occurrence, the circumstances of a 
 story, so singular and pathetic in itself, and so 
 interwoven with the mysterious part of human 
 existence, naturally imprinted themselves on 
 my youthful imagination in such a manner 
 that they can never be forgotten. 
 
 It was when I was about ten years of age, 
 that a strange drover, in pursuit of his avoca- 
 tion, passed through our district. He was a 
 young man for a drover, about twenty-six I 
 should say, tall and manly in appearance, and 
 spoke with a broad accent that told plainly of 
 his Border parentage. I remember very well 
 how I, in my boyish way, was pleased by his 
 sedate manner, and how everything he said 
 and did was marked by a quiet, simple 
 earuestuess^ which coutrasted strongly with 
 
 .iiiii;ii;iii 
 
 llllill 
 
 :iiii 
 

 THE DBOVER'S weird 
 
 75 
 
 lich I am 
 as a boy. 
 erthshire, 
 ; interest 
 Qces of a 
 If, and so 
 of human 
 selves on 
 L manner 
 
 •s of age, 
 is avoca- 
 do was a 
 ity-six I 
 mce, and 
 dainly of 
 ^ery well 
 by his 
 he said 
 simple 
 :iy with 
 
 the boisterous heartiness of the manners that 
 prevailed in our part. As he gradually 
 succeeded in forming a connection with the 
 surrounding farmers his visits became more 
 frequent, and his company more welcome ; for 
 his was one of those characters which make 
 little or no impression on being first intro- 
 duced, but which gradually and imperceptibly 
 grow in estimation the longer they are known. 
 After passing thus to and fro for a year or so, 
 a house, with some grazing land attached, 
 became vacant by its tenant emigrating to 
 Australia. It was a pleasant though solitary 
 place, being indeed the only human habitation 
 in the glen in which it was situated, we being 
 the nearest neighbors, and distant two miles. 
 In a hilly country like ours, fit only for rearing 
 sheep, houses were necessarily few and widely 
 scattered. When it was noised abroad that 
 the low-country drover had taken a lease of 
 the house thus left tenantless, general satis- 
 faction was expressed, mingled with a good 
 deal of surprise, for the drover was unmarried ; 
 a circumstance which gave occasion for some 
 sly bantering, which he took in good part, but 
 he kept his own counsel. He left for the south 
 
 !| 
 
! i I 
 
 
 
 ill 
 
 
 in- 
 
 "liiiiliiiiiinii 
 
 iliPIMIi 
 
 iliiill 
 
 I I 
 
 Ijii !i" 
 ■ lillljlljli iliillfl: 
 
 ill! 
 
 76 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 weeks after — with a wife. She came from ih 
 same place as himself, in fact they had known 
 each other from infancy, and the whole parish 
 agreed that there could not be a better fitted 
 couple. The days in the glen passed happily 
 for the youthful pair. He continued to make 
 his usual journeys, but his wife's was not a i 
 nature to sink during these intervals, for hers 
 was one of those patient, contented dispositions 
 that are equable and cheerful under all circum- 
 stances; busying herself with her household 
 duties, time passed lightly by, and as she said 
 herself, the joy attending his return more than 
 compensated for the loneliness she felt in his 
 absence. 
 
 It was in the succeeding Spring, after they 
 had lived about a year in this way, that she 
 observed with alarm, on her husband's return 
 from one of his customary expeditions, a great 
 change in his spirits. He was inert and 
 melancholy, seemingly as if brooding over 
 some secret subject of disquiet. From a sensi- 
 tiveness as to seeking to know what he thought 
 best to keep from her, she avoided any direct 
 questioning, and tried even to conceal the fact 
 that she noticed any thing unusual in*his^bear- 
 ing, trusting the cause of it would wear away 
 
THE drover's weird 
 
 n course of time, or that he would tell her of 
 
 lie own accord. He went about his daily 
 [duties and evidently strove to conduct himself 
 [in his usual manner, but it was plain that 
 [whatever the cause that discomposed him 
 [might be, it was too strong to be even out- 
 Iwardly disguised, far less suppressed. Weeks 
 [passed, but the gloom that had settled on him 
 [showed no abatement. Whatever was wrong, 
 [he did not cease on that account his prepara- 
 tions for a fresh journey to the southern 
 [markets. 
 
 The evening before his departure he was 
 ^sitting alone with his wife. She had been 
 busy all day preparing for his journey, but ahe 
 
 had not been so busy as not to observe the 
 (changeful mood of her husband, which seemed 
 [to darken and increase in intensity as the day 
 [wore on. The conversation he exerted himself 
 [to maintain for the moment flagii^ed, when he 
 
 ink into an absent fit, staring gloomily at the 
 [dying embers on the hearth, his impassive 
 [features telling, in their very blankness of 
 [expression, of the silent agony within. It was 
 [too much for the yearning nature of his wife, 
 [she rose and placing her hand on his shoulder, 
 jked * What ails you V in a tender tone. 
 
:S 
 
 W iffl 
 
 ll! 
 
 I 
 
 'it 
 
 i 
 
 I !ill!!!!i!!i!;!i!ii'i 
 
 3'''^^'^^^'''! 
 
 I!. I i! 
 
 I ijlljlllllllllllliilll 
 
 1 I: 
 
 ! ill 
 
 lip 
 
 m 
 
 78 
 
 QLEAKEB TALES 
 
 'NaethiDg, naeihing/ he replied, abruptly 
 arousing himself. 
 
 'Aye, but yon ken yoursel there is some* 
 thing : how can you no tell me V 
 
 'There is naething/ he said softly, as he met 
 her affectionate gaze, 'naething bodily wrang.' 
 
 'Then you ha'e na peace o' mind : somebody 
 has done wrang by you/ 
 
 'No, nae man has done aught to me/ 
 
 'Ye'U hae lost siller, then/ she said timidly. 
 
 'I have lost nae siller. Dinna troublo your- 
 self about me.' 
 
 'Oh, John/ she said, 'there is something i 
 wrang wi' you. You gang daunderia* about | 
 wi' your head bent, and dinna lippen to what 
 is gangin' on about you. Ye've nae heart in 
 what you dae, YouVe no your auld sel*. I 
 am weel persuaded there is in your bosom a 
 secret trouble. Hide it na frae me : I will 
 share it wi' you and pray to God he may 
 remove this sair weight frae aff you/ 
 
 With this affectionate outburst, delivered 
 with all the earnestness of her nature, her hus- 
 band was obviously touched. He stretchei] 
 forth his arms to move her gently away, as ii 
 he wished he could have so cast his thoughts 
 behind him, as he answered-^ 
 
 llliliiili: 
 
THE DEOVEK S WEIRD 
 
 79 
 
 *I have tauld you already there is naething 
 wrang wi' me. Dinna tak on as you do, for 
 that troubles me sairly; never mind how I 
 gang on ; I am aye the same to you. I can 
 tell you naught. When I am awa' dinna be 
 sad about me. That I'll be back again/ and he 
 I spoke slowly ;, his voice sinking into a solemn 
 tone, 'I have nae doubt— nae doubt.* 
 
 Next morning, as the sun was slowly rising 
 above the hills that hemmed in the little glen, 
 I streaking their brown sides with mingled bars 
 I of sunshine and shade, the drover stood at the 
 [doorway, ready for his journey. His shep- 
 herd's plaid, without which he never travelled, 
 I was hung over his arm ; in his hand he 
 ;rasped the crook characteristic of his calling. 
 'It's a braw morning/ he said to his wife, 
 rho was standing by his side, and a tranquil 
 expression passed over his face, for the beauty 
 )f the morning had awakened remembrances 
 >f many such mornings, the prelude to days 
 >f happiness. 'Good-bye, gude-wife/ he said, 
 frasping her hand, 'we'll ha'e a blithe meeting 
 to mak' up for this. Dinna be anxious about 
 »e ; I'll tak' guid care o' mysel'/ 
 'Do so, do so/ she said warmly, 'may God 
 )reserve you. 
 

 111 
 
 I 
 
 : 
 
 I 
 
 i,i'l I i;„,„„„„„,, 
 
 ill! llililr'''"'' 
 %,^, ,, 
 
 ' JFiii 
 
 '1! 
 
 I I II 
 
 80 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 He answered with a tighter grip and turned 
 away. She watched him as he followed the 
 devious footpath that led through the glen, 
 now appearing and disappearing according to 
 the inequalities of the ground, till his tall form, 
 with his plaid dangling from his arm, was 
 finally lost to her sight by the road taking a 
 more decided declination. It was the last time 
 she was ever to see him so depart. 
 
 It was a fortnight after his departure, that a 
 stout Border drover was hustling and pushing 
 his way through the crowded streets of Man- 
 chester on a Saturday night. While thus 
 slowly making his way, his keen eye was 
 caught by the waving of a plaid from the 
 shoulders of a figure, that rose above the crowd, 
 before him. 'If I'm no mista'en, I ken that 
 chiel's swagger,' was the mental ejaculation of 
 the Borderer, as he pushed more vigorously 
 forward. * How's a' wi' you, John,' he ex- 
 claimed, as he grasped him suddenly by the 
 arm. 
 
 '£h,' said he thus startled, who was none 
 other than our old acquaintance the drover. 
 'It's you,' Brodie, is it,* he added, as he recog- 
 nized in the interrupter of his reverie an old 
 acquaintance, and warmly shook his hand. 
 
THE DROVEB'S weird 
 
 81 
 
 turned 
 red the 
 e glen, 
 ding to 
 ,11 form, 
 :in, was 
 <aking a 
 ast time 
 
 e, that a 
 pushing 
 of Man- 
 iile thus 
 leye was 
 from the 
 le crowd, 
 ken that 
 ilation of 
 ligorously 
 he ex- 
 ly by the 
 
 I\7a3 none 
 
 ]e drover. 
 
 he recog- 
 l-ie an old 
 
 land. 
 
 *Ay, it's me, man, sure enough, though I 
 dldna' think o' meriting you here at this time/ 
 
 'It's out o' my usual road, but I cam' here to 
 settle wi' the man wha bocht my nowte at 
 Huddersfield fair, but it's settled noo, and I 
 leave on Monday mornin' for hame.' 
 
 'Ay for your wife, puir body ; she's weel, I 
 hope. They'll no forget you or her at Boughead 
 in a hurry. An' what kind o' ransom got you 
 for your nowte V And the Borderer, keen at 
 bargains, reverted to subjects in which he had 
 a professional interest. The two Borderers, for 
 John was a native of the same dale as his 
 friend, who had known him from a child, and 
 had watched his progress in life with some- 
 thing akin to paternal interest, walked along 
 together, indulging in such desultory conver- 
 sation as the crush and bustle around them 
 permitted. It did not escape the notice of 
 the older drover, however, that though John 
 I answered his questions with his usual shrewd- 
 [ness and equanimity, that a change had come 
 over him — that there was something weighing 
 jupon his mind. When they came to the corner 
 {of the street at which their ways separated, 
 Tohn seemed to make some intei^^nal effort as 
 le said, 'I wad like to see you again before I 
 T 
 
82 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 1 
 
 gang awa' ; I ha'e something on which I wad 
 ha'e you advise me.' 
 
 'I ken a quiet howfF where you can do so 
 now/ said the elder. 
 
 *Na, no just noo, and it wadna maybe lawfu' 
 to speak o't to-morrow, seeing it is the Sabbath, 
 though to be sure we are no in Scotland ; but 
 gin ye'll meet me at the tavern at the right 
 hand o' the wool-market, on Monday morning, 
 I'll be there afore 6 o'clock/ , 
 
 *Aweel, John, gin it will no do noo, I'se 
 meet you on Monday mornin' as you wish.' 
 And with this mutual agreement they parted. 
 
 The sun was beginning to peer above the 
 roofs of the lofty houses that line the pave- 
 ments of Manchester, when Brodie was walking 
 along its silent and deserted streets. On enter- 
 ing that which had been agreed upon for the 
 appointment, he perceived John walking to 
 and fro, moody and absorbed, waiting him. 
 On the Borderer's salutation he aroused himself 
 and led the way up a narrow, overarched entry, 
 which opened into a small square court, at one 
 side of which a tavern was situated. Early as 
 it was, its door was open, and its interior 
 cleaned and arranged for the day's business. 
 Both beemed familiar with the place, and were 
 
THE DROVER S WEIRD 
 
 83 
 
 soon seated in a small room, the narrow window 
 of which, closely walled in on all sides, admitted 
 but a kind of twilight. 
 
 'Hech, that fits weel sae early in the morn- 
 ing, though it be na sae guid as our north- 
 country spirit,* quoth the substantial Brodie^ 
 as he smacked his lips after a hearty sip at the 
 measure which a trim servant-girl had placed 
 on the table. 
 
 *Now, what ha'e you to tell me, John ? You 
 look unco glum. I maun be on the road in an 
 hour.' 
 
 'You have travelled the bye road to Perth 
 that gangs by Callander?' commenced John 
 unheedful of his friend's remark. 'And ye'll 
 mavbe mind a burn that crosses the moor be- 
 fore ye tak the turn for my place ?' 
 
 'That I do,' replied his companion, to whom 
 every mile of Scotland was familiar. ' ' 
 
 'Weel, what I have got to say is soon tauld ; 
 ye'll maybe laugh at me, but it has been a sair 
 burden to me for the last eight weeks. I had 
 been at Falkirk tryst, and was on my road 
 hameward, when I entered on that moor at 
 nightfall. I had been away for ower four 
 weeks, and the thought of being with my wife 
 so sune, made me forget the loneliness of the 
 
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84 
 
 QLEANEB TALES 
 
 road and my ain weariDcss. It maun ha'e been 
 near midnight when I reached the burn; it 
 was pit-mirk though clear, for there wasna a 
 cloud in the heavens. Weel, I wasna thinkin' 
 o' aucht but what was pleasant, my spirits 
 were as guid as ever they were and my head 
 as clear, but the moment I put my foot across 
 the bum (there's a muckle grey stane at the 
 spot), something, I ken na what, came ower me, 
 my heart sunk within me, my flesh cleaved to 
 my banes as if it would enter them, and the 
 conviction flashed across my mind, as distinct 
 and sure as if an angel had thundered it in my 
 lug, that when I crossed that burn again I 
 would fall a dead man. But I saw naething ; 
 nor was there a sign o' a living creature, nor a 
 soun' to be heard, on the whole moor. Aweel, 
 I recovered in a moment from my dwam, or 
 from what you may like to ca' it (but it wasna 
 a dwam, for I had a' my senses and they were 
 sharper than ordinar'), and I tried to recollect 
 something and sought to explain it awa' to 
 myser, and to shake aff the awfu' feeling that 
 bore down my mind, but I couldna. No, nor 
 though I've focht against it ever since. It'i* 
 there and winna be shaken aff. The conviction 
 that settled on me at that moment is as deep, 
 
THE DBOTEBS WEIRD 
 
 85 
 
 been 
 
 i; it 
 ana a 
 inkin* 
 spirits 
 ^beftd 
 across 
 at the 
 jet me, 
 Btved to 
 tnd the 
 distinct 
 
 ,i in my 
 again I 
 Bietbing ; 
 re, nor a 
 
 Aweel, 
 wam, or 
 it wasna 
 bey were 
 recollect 
 t awa' to 
 jlinjjj tbat 
 
 No, nor 
 ince. It f 
 conviotioQ 
 is as deep, 
 
 as Strang, and as certain at this moment as it 
 was then.' 
 
 The drover paused : his narration had added 
 a terrible earnestness to his speech, which 
 needed not the solemnity of his manner and 
 countenance to convince one of his sincerity 
 and strength of belief in the mysterious visita- 
 tion of that night. His brother-drover, hard- 
 headed and practical in the business of life, 
 shared in the then general belief of the super- 
 natural. 'God save us,' he ejaculated, <I never 
 heard o' the like o' this. And have ye seen 
 onything connected with the forecast since, or 
 felt ye ever onything like it before V 
 
 'No ; nor did I ever think o' sic things.' 
 
 'It's fearsome ; and ye saw naething ? But 
 ye'U tak the warning and no tempt the speeri^ 
 by crossing the bum as long as you live.' 
 
 'I winna do that ; what's foreordained maun 
 come to pass. I dinna ken that I ever did 
 onything why my life should be shortened by 
 mair than other folk's. The warning may 
 have been sent to me in mercy, that I might 
 prepare mysel', baith in earthly and spiritual 
 matters. And I am prepared. I've tauld nae 
 body aboot this, but when I met you on 
 ^turda^ night I tho^ht it m^ duty to do sae^ 
 
 ■h 
 
iiiii- ■ I:- 
 
 lil ,,1 11 
 
 
 86 
 
 OLEANEB TALES 
 
 for your's ia the last freen's face I will likely 
 ever see. I didna tell my wife, for it would 
 ha'e grieved her to nae purpose. I thocht o' 
 tellin' the minister, but he could nae mair, than 
 ony other mortal, put back the hands o' time. 
 'Qin I meet my death before my wife sees me/ 
 and here the observer might have marked a 
 quaver in his voice, 'ye'll tell her what I ha'e 
 tauld you, and see that she gets her rights— 
 there's no a bodle due by me — and tell her it 
 was o' her I thocht last.' 
 
 With all his solicitude and compassion for 
 his young friend, the Borderer knew not how 
 to advise him. ' Weel, John, I hope ye may be 
 mista'en as to what the forecast means, and I 
 wad ha'e ye tak' anither road ; but if so be ony 
 thing docs happen ye, I'll do your bidding, 
 though I trust in Providence I may ne'er ha'e 
 cause.' 
 
 With that they rose and re-entered the street. 
 The factory bells were ringing, and groups of 
 artizans and mill-girls were passing to resume 
 their monotonous labor. The paths of the two 
 drovers here separated. With a strength of 
 grasp that indicated the depth of attachment 
 on the one side and of affection on the other, 
 and the conviction that it might be for the last 
 
THE drover's weird 
 
 87 
 
 time, they silently shook hands and each took 
 his respective way. 
 
 It was on the bec;inning of the week suc- 
 ceeding that on which he had held his con- 
 ference with Brodie in the Manchester tavern, 
 that the drover reached on his way homeward, 
 the inn that stood on the verge of that moor 
 associated in his mind with such terrible antici- 
 pation. The moor, a vast bleak expanse, formed 
 the barrier at that point between the Lowlands 
 and the Highlands. On the one side the di- 
 versified country of the south, rich and culti- 
 vated, rose gradually till it melted into the 
 table-land of the moor, which in its turn ex- 
 tended northward till it was broken abruptly 
 by a range of lofty mountains, that sprung 
 almost perpendicularly from its marshy level. 
 Openings here and there could be detected in 
 this formidable rampart, being the passes or 
 glens by which access was had to the country 
 beyond. To one of these openings, which lay 
 obliquely to the little inn (the last habitation 
 the traveller would meet till he reached the 
 dwellings of the store-farmers buried among 
 the hills beyond), the drover's road lay. It 
 was nightfall when he had reached the inn, but 
 some inward impulse urged him to continue 
 
 %■■ 
 
 
\ihi>\,, '. "^'-JBa 
 
 8S 
 
 QLEAKER TALES 
 
 his journey ; by walking all night it was pos- 
 Bible for him to reach his home before day- 
 break. The public room of the inn was crowded; 
 there was to be some fair or gathering at a 
 neighboriog village next day, so that a confused 
 gathering of shepherds and farmers filled the 
 little room, banishing quiet and comfort from 
 its walls by their ceaseless talking and restless- 
 ness. He recognized none of the assemblage, 
 and was in no mood to be interested by their 
 motions or conversation. He sat down in a 
 retired nook by the fire that blazed in the wide 
 chimney, and there unnoticed he rested him- 
 self and took some refreshment to prepare 
 himself for his further exertions. On the op- 
 posite side of the fire-place, crouched on a low 
 settle, was a woman whose brow still bore 
 traces of youthful prime and whose dark hair 
 and full saturnine features told of gipsy blood, 
 hushing a child to sleep. She was apparently 
 as occupied with her own thoughts and as in- 
 different to the tumult around as himself. In 
 her expression the drover had perhaps dis- 
 covered some kindred resemblance to his own 
 sad thoughts, or more probably her presence 
 reminded him of her who was at that moment, 
 \n the solitary glen, waiting for him at l)is owi^ 
 
THE DBOVEB'S WEIBD 
 
 89 
 
 lonely fireside. When he rose to depart, and 
 bad adjusted his plaid, he approached the wo- 
 man L5 she hung over her child and dropped a 
 shilling in her lap. She raised her h^, for 
 the first time that he had observed, and fixing 
 her large liquid black eyes on his face for a 
 moment, she said, as she resumed her old posi- 
 tion, 'Tak' it back, sir ; I canna tak' the siller 
 o' a doomed man/ The words seemed a con- 
 firmation of his own forebodings; he said 
 nothing, but took the money she held towards 
 bim, and left the house. 
 
 The day that had closed had been a fine one, 
 and the evening was serene and beautiful. The 
 moon rode high in the unclouded expanse. 
 Resolutely the drover bent his steps towards 
 tbe moor of so dreadful omen to him, de- 
 termined to brave his fate, and was soon lost to 
 sight as he strode rapidly on his solitary course. 
 
 On the second day succeeding the evening on 
 which the drover had set forth on his journey 
 across the moor, an old man, accompanied by a 
 white pony as ancient as himself, on whose 
 back were slung two panniers, was slowly 
 making his ti ay over it. He was not a pedlar, 
 though to judge from the goods with which 
 
 !•;/ 
 
 i ', 
 
90 
 
 QLEANEE TALES 
 
 :ll 
 
 the baskets were filled he did a little in that 
 way toe but rather a kind of irregular carrier, 
 who executed the little commissions of the 
 farmers of the district : keeping up a communi- 
 cation between them in their solitary retreats 
 and the villages of the low-country. This 
 simple, though useful, service he had performed 
 for nearly thirty years. He was now on his 
 way north to deliver to his patrons their re- 
 ■pective parcels, letters, or messages as the case 
 might be. The day was beautiful ; bright and 
 warm. Even the moor, in all its dreary 
 sterility, was pleasant in the sunshine thwt 
 warmed its brown surface into life. But what 
 part of nature can be called ugly or unplea- 
 sant ? Does not the heather -bell bloom amidst 
 the quag-mires of the moss, and where can the 
 sense of everlasting repose (of which man can 
 form at best so poor a conception) be more 
 strongly felt than in the wilderness of the 
 shapeless mountains? On trudged the old 
 man, keeping pace with the sober step of his 
 laden companion, picking a devious path among 
 the bogs that, in parts, honeycombed the sur- 
 face of the moor ; the only sign of life that 
 crossed his way, being the cry of the moorfowl 
 that was startled from its covert by his ap- 
 
THE DBOTEB'S weird 
 
 91 
 
 proach. As the day wore on fatigue and 
 appetite suggested a halt The sun had reached 
 its meridian, when he finally stopped hy a 
 small stream that oozed, rather than flowed, 
 over its spongy bed, and which afforded along 
 its margin some tufts of grass for his pony. 
 The girths were lessened, and the faithful 
 animal began, by the side of his master, to 
 patiently crop his scanty feed, while the old 
 man himself munched his oaten-cake and bite 
 of cheese. It was while thus engaged that his 
 eye, roving idly around, was caught by the 
 sight of a recumbent figure stretched beside a 
 grey stone on the other side of the burn, and 
 wrapped in a plaid. Though surprised at such 
 a choice of lodging, he thought it was some 
 shepherd who had fallen asleep, and so cried 
 out. But no response came. Urged by curiosity 
 he crossed the stream, and as he approached 
 the figure he saw it was that of a young man, 
 tall and well made, the face inclined to the 
 ground. He shook him, and then he gently 
 turned his face up — it was the face of a dead 
 man. It was John, the drover. Even the old 
 man, too accustomed from infancy to the sor- 
 rows and privations of poverty to be startled 
 by any incident, was rendered motionless with 
 
d2 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 ,'iii' 
 
 iiji'^ ■.::■■■''■' 
 
 sarpriae and horror at the ghaatl j sight As 
 he recovered his usual composare, his first idea 
 was that the unfortunate man had heen mur- 
 dered, hut he could find no mark of violence, 
 and the features were placid as if he had fallen 
 asleep. He thrust his hand into his bosom, 
 where he knew such men carried their money, 
 and pulled out a pocket-book well stnfied with 
 bank-notes. 
 
 'He hasna been robbed and he hasna been 
 murdered/ soliloquised the old man, 'then how 
 has he cam by his death ? He is young, tae, 
 and got siller, so neither is it age or poor- 
 tith that has killed him. Comely, tae, and 
 weel-faured ; frae his brown hair and blue een 
 I*d say he was frae the South. Nae doubt 
 some heart will be wae when they hear o' his 
 misfortune.' 
 
 When the old man had exhausted his stock 
 of conjectures as to the cause of his fate, the 
 question suddenly struck him as how he was 
 to dispose of the body. It puzzled him. He 
 was more than half way across the moor, the 
 nearest habitation to him being the little inn 
 on its south border, but which as it lay ob- 
 liquely from him, was at least six miles 
 distant 
 
m 
 
 THE DBOTEB'S WEIBD 93 
 
 *l might Uk him there/ said the old man to 
 himself, 'for it wad be uDchristian to leave him 
 here streekit, by himsel', a nicbt langer, bat it 
 wad tak me out o' my way and it wad be near 
 dark gin I reached it, and then they mightna 
 ken aacht about him. Til tak him/ he said, at 
 length, after musing a while, 'to Auchleck, the 
 road I've got to gang. It*s no muckle farther 
 than the ion, and they are as likely to ken 
 wha he b.* 
 
 So deciding he prepared for his journey. 
 With some difficulty he succeeded in getting 
 the corpse upon his pony's back, where he 
 secured it as well as he could, and began, with 
 his mournful load, to slowly traverse Uie moor. 
 Burdened with the additional weighty twilight 
 was beginning to steal upon the day when the 
 old man and his pony entered the glen in 
 which Auchleck was situated. Auchleck, the 
 abode of a considerable sheep-owner, was a 
 farm-steading of some extent. 
 
 Those familiar with the mode of life in such 
 houses, will know how, in the summer-evenings, 
 when the men return from the hill and the 
 lasses from milking the kye, it is usual to pass 
 the hour of gloaming in noisy frolic and out- 
 door games, before going to rest. The fun was 
 
 u 
 

 M 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 at its height, their shouts and laughter echoing 
 through the gleu, when the old man, wit^ his 
 pony, appeared in their mid8t. Very different 
 was their mood when they learned the ghastly 
 nature of his pony's extra burden. The 
 features were at once recognized as those of 
 the drover, for he had been at Auchleck in 
 pursuit of his calling; and the old carrier 
 found that he was the new man he had so often 
 heard about but had never chanced to meet. 
 The body was carried into the house and 
 treated with all respect. 
 
 As the old man had been troubled as to how 
 he would dispose of the corpse, when he found 
 it, so now the good-man of Auchleck w^o 
 equally puzzled as to how he should act. 'It 
 wadna do/ he said, 'to keep him, puir chiel, till 
 we sent his wife word, and I canna spare the 
 men, this being sic a gran' spell of weather for 
 the shearing, to tak him till ^'^r.' So after 
 some debate, it was settled that it would be 
 best for the old man to conclude the journey as 
 he had begun it. 
 
 Detained by the prepartions deemed neces- 
 sary, noon had passed next day ere he set forth 
 with his sad load, to painfuly thread his way 
 through the passes and glens that intervene 
 
THE DROVEK'S WEIKD 
 
 95 
 
 between Auchleck and the now desolate homo 
 of the dead man. 
 
 The wife of the drover had been expecting 
 his return daily ; and as each day passed with- 
 out his appearing, the recollection of his moody 
 humor, when he left, more than once recurred 
 to her, giving rise to more than one passing 
 pang of anxiety. But hers was not a mind Lu 
 give way to imaginary fears, and she still 
 looked forward to his return hopefully < id 
 cheerfully, continuing to perform her daily 
 round of labor m her lonely retieat with lUi- 
 abated co^i/entment and equanimity. On the 
 forenoon of the day on which the old man left 
 Auchleck, all unconscious of what was ap- 
 proaching, she spread the table, and made such 
 preparations for her husband as affection sug- 
 gested, and then sat down at the door to watch 
 for his appearance. The day, softly warm 
 and calm, wore slowly on, but still she could 
 discern no figure on the winding footpath 
 she scanned so eagerly. Every Scotchman 
 knows the exceeding beauty of a Highland 
 summer's evening. How the light so slowly 
 dies away as to be almost imperceptible ; how 
 the waning sunlight lingers lovingly on the 
 bosom of the heathy hills ; and how they, and 
 
 if: 
 
 
96 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 
 111 
 
 m 
 
 the still more deserted moors, gather additional 
 solemnity and majesty in those weird hours ! 
 Slowly, however^ as the twilight dies, it had 
 almost become imperceptible when she entered 
 the house for a moment to see if everything 
 was right; for she had not yet given up all 
 hope of her husband's return that evening. 
 While thus engaged, she casually turned her 
 head, and saw an old man, dressed in hodden 
 grey, standing at the door. 
 'Qude e'en,' was the old man's salutation. 
 'Good e'en,' she returned, 'ye travel ]ate,frieD.' 
 'The Brotach road is a sair ane to travel.' 
 'You came by that gate, did you ; then ye'll 
 no ha'e seen my gudeman V 
 'Were you expectin' him,' he asked. 
 'I ha'e been expectin' him these four nichts 
 past, and to-nicht I was sure he wad come,' and 
 as she said so, she cast an eager look down the 
 glen, as if she could perceive him she so 
 ardently desired through the gloom that had 
 now settled on all around. 
 
 The old man seemed uncertain for a moment 
 as to how he should act ; he feared the conse- 
 quence of his fatal news, yet ho wished to 
 unburden his mind. 
 'Well, my dear,' he said, his voice involun- 
 
 III ||: 
 
THE DROVEB's weird 
 
 97 
 
 tarily trembling with emotion, 'you expectit 
 him, and he has come/ 
 
 'Come! what! whare is he?' the unfortunate 
 wife exclaimed, starting forward. 
 
 <Tak it easy, my bonny doo ; submit to the 
 dispensations o' a gracious Providence. YeVe 
 gudeman is dead, and is on my powny's back 
 out by.* 
 
 The blow was too much ; <i shriek of agony 
 escaped her lips, and she sank senseless into a 
 settle. 
 
 'Noo, Qod hae pity on her, puir shorn lamb,' 
 the Old mo,n said, as he raised her head, and 
 pressed a cup of water to her lips. 
 
 She had not altogether fainted, however, tho' 
 the shock had been too severe and unexpected 
 for her nature to bear. As the first effects of 
 the news passed away, and she became con- 
 scious of the full extent and bitterness of her 
 loss, above all rose that strong sense of duty 
 |that was ever present to her mind, — her duty 
 
 awards Qod and her fellow-creatures — which. 
 If it subtracted not from the poignancy of her 
 feelings, at least enabled her to confine them to 
 
 it own bosom, subdue their manifestations, 
 
 id bear them patiently. 
 
 They bore the body between them, and laid 
 8 
 
98 
 
 GLEANEE TALES 
 
 it on the bed. When she uncovered the face, 
 the unfortunate wife seemed again to lose her 
 self-possession, but it was only for a moment. 
 The old man's pony found a bed by the side of 
 the cow, the patient companion of the newly- 
 made widow, and he himself was soon seated 
 at the supper she had prepared for her husband. 
 After he had finished, and as they sat by the 
 fire, he told her how he had found her husband 
 lying dead on the moor; how he had borne him 
 to the farm-house of Auchleck; had there 
 learned his name, and how he had thence borne 
 him to her that day. The old man, wearied as 
 he was, would have sitten up with her al! 
 night, but she persuaded him to lie down. For 
 herself, she sat by the lifeless remains of her{ 
 late husband, but what her sorrow or her feel- 
 ings were during that long vigil no one has a I 
 right to know. As had been agreed upon tbe 
 previous night, the old man rose with the first 
 dawn of morn, and set forth over the hills to 
 our house, as being the nearest neighbors, to 
 get assistance. By the time he had reached it| 
 all the men had gone to the hill for the 
 but my mother, who was greatly moved at tlul 
 old man's tidings, at once set forth, withtj 
 servant |>nd myself, then a stripling, for 
 
THE drover's weird 
 
 99 
 
 house of sorrow. The news of the calamity 
 that had fallen on the bumble cottage of the 
 glen soon spread, evoking deepest sympathy. 
 
 The funeral took place the following day, 
 and although it was in the midst of the busiest 
 season, every farmer, shepherd, and hind within 
 a wide circuit was present. It was the largest 
 funeral within our district, I heard old men 
 say, for thirty years. The impressive nature of 
 the mournful procession, as it slowly wound its 
 way among the glens and over the hills to the 
 church-yard, which was at a considerable dis- 
 tance, I shall never forget. 
 
 Many kind offers were made by the neigh- 
 bors to the widow, but she thankfully declined 
 them all ; nor would she return to her native 
 district, though several of her relatives (she 
 had no near ones), on hearing of her misfortune, 
 had come to take her away with them. She 
 lived in the house where she had known so 
 much of joy and sorrow, till the lease expired, 
 when she removed to a little village not far 
 from the church-yard where her husband was 
 buried. There she passed her life unob- 
 trusively, eking out her little income by spin- 
 -ning, beloved by many for her acts of kindness 
 [and respected by all 
 
 t ; 
 i 
 
WHAT A FIB8T SETTLER TOLD MR 
 
 After the Biifling heat and blinding glure of 
 a Canadian Summer day, it is piost refreshing 
 to walk forth as the sun, shorn of its strength, 
 sinks, a glowing ball of fire, behind the forest 
 that edges the landscape. Vegetation, wilted 
 by the heat, revives with the dewy coolness of 
 the hour, and from the neighboring bush comes 
 the song of the grey-bird. As the glow of day 
 fades from the sky, nowhere else in the world 
 of tenderer blue or more translucent depth, the 
 stars drop quickly into sight, and should Venus 
 be. in the ascendai^t^ she burns, with a white 
 flanae unl^nown at any other season. Qeperally, 
 with the setting of the sun» a lig^t breieze 
 springs up from the west or, north west»i refresh- 
 ing, to the ! enervated frames of those who 
 toiled throughout the sultry day, and swaying 
 the heads of timothy until the meadows seam 
 to be F wept by billows. The eye of the saun- 
 terer takes in the scene, passing over the great 
 fiat fields of grain and grass, until ended by 
 
A settler's stoby 
 
 101 
 
 the recurring belt of bush; the snug farm- 
 houses set amid shade-trees and orcbards ; the 
 pond-like reaches of the Chaieaugay, sleeping 
 peacefully in the hollow of its rounded banks, 
 unruffled save as the wing of one of the swal- 
 lows/ who skim its glassy surface, frets it for a 
 moment, or from the leap of an inhabitant of 
 its clear waters ; and; in the finished beauty of 
 the picture, he finds it hard to realize that he is 
 looking upon the results of the labor of scarce 
 half a century, that underneatb a few of the 
 roofs before him are men and women who 
 saw the country when a wilderness of forest 
 and swamp, and who are survivors of the gene- 
 ration who wrought the wondrous change — 
 men and women who underwent privations the 
 roost painful and labors the most exhausting in 
 making the country what it is. To give those 
 who have inherited the fruits of their sacrifices, 
 some idea of what the first settlers underwent, 
 I here submit the narrative of one of them, as 
 nearly as may be in the words I was told it : 
 
 You have driven a long way to see mo, sir, 
 and t am afraid I can tell you little worth the 
 hearing. It is strange you should go to so 
 much trouble to gather these old-auld stories, 
 l)ut \( I can tell you anything that will be of 
 
 ( ■ 
 
 ■ri 
 
 r^ 
 
itlili 
 ii i: 
 
 102 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 use to you I am quite williug. You want me 
 to begin with our leaving the Old Country and 
 go on in order, as you can recollect it best that 
 way. Very well, only you will have to come 
 and see me again, for it is a long story, and if 
 you print anything, you are to change it so that 
 nobody will know who it came from. I don't 
 mind for myself, but some of my children might 
 not like it. 
 
 We belonged to the Borders, and the first 
 sight that met my eyes every morning was the 
 Eildon hills. My husband was a shepherd and 
 we lived well enough until our family began to 
 grow large, and then we thought it would be 
 well for their sake to try Canada. We had a 
 little saved and that, with what we got from 
 the roup of our furniture, paid our passage and 
 plenishing. We sailed from the Solway, into 
 which a big ship from Liverpool called for a 
 number of emigrants. We were rowed out to 
 her in small boats, and when I got on to her 
 deck my heart failed me, for such dirt and con- 
 fusion I never saw the like, crowded as she was 
 with 242 emigrants from county Kerry, who 
 had gone on board at Liverpool. This we 
 never expected, but it was too late now, and 
 we had to make the bv-at of it. The sight 
 
A settler's story. 
 
 103 
 
 below was worse than above, and I turned 
 fairly sick when I went down the ladder to our 
 berths; the noise was bad enough but the 
 smell was just awful. The mate, a swearing 
 character, was not without a show of decency, 
 and he did us the great favor of allotting to us 
 Border folks, who numbered an even six dozen, 
 the row of berths aft the main hatchway, so 
 that we were kept together. We slipped out 
 of the firth that night with the tide, and next 
 morning, which was a most beautiful day, we 
 kept tacking off and on the coast of the North 
 of Ireland. As we got out to the ocean, I grew 
 cea-sick, and for a few days I was just in 
 misery; having to attend the children yet 
 hardly able to raise my head. The ship's pro- 
 visions were scanty and very bad, which did 
 not matter much to us, for we had taken a good 
 deal with us, but the poor Irish, who had 
 brought nothing, were always wanting to bor- 
 row, and as, not having more than enough to 
 serve ourselves, we had to refuse, they abused 
 us for being proud, and tried to pick quarrels 
 with us, but both the Scotch and English of us 
 kept our tempers and gave them no offence. 
 Their jealousy and ill-feeling grew, and one 
 morning they banded together to prevent our 
 
 
104 
 
 QLEAmCR TALES 
 
 'II 
 
 getting hot water at the galley. This we could 
 not stand, for the water was bad and only fit 
 to drink when boiled and made into tea or 
 gruel. The captain refused to interfere, being 
 afraid, we thought, of having trouble with the 
 Kerry men, and the mate only swore at our 
 lads for a cowardly lot of sheep -tenders. When 
 dinner-time came, our men got out their crooks, 
 and, quietly going on deck, formed in a column 
 and, laying about them right and left, cleared 
 a road to the galley. There were fearful threats 
 made, but nothing came of them, and after that 
 we were respected and left alone. 
 
 The ship made little headway owing to the 
 wind keeping in the West, and it was on 
 the eighth day of our voyage that it became 
 \:nown to us that a woman, who had been sick 
 for some time, was ill of the fever. On that 
 day she got delirious and her people could not 
 hide the truth longer. Four of the oldest men 
 of our party were sent to tell the captain. He 
 made light of their news and said they were 
 mistaken about the disease, but he refused to 
 come and see the woman or to put up a par- 
 tition across the hold to separate us from the 
 rest of the passengers. We took his treatment 
 sore to heart. When ship-owners get his 
 
A ssttler's stobt 
 
 105 
 
 passage-money, they don't care what comes of 
 the poor emigrant, and would just as soon he 
 would die on the voyage as land him. We 
 went to sleep that night sad and frightened, for 
 we knew, hy reading the papers, what ship- 
 fever meant Well, next day the woman was 
 worse, and on the evening of the third she died. 
 We were all anxious that the corpse should be 
 buried at once, so that the infection might not 
 be spread by it, and two of our folk, taking 
 some things that might be useful in preparing 
 the body, went over to where it lay to advise 
 that that be done. The poor creatures got 
 angry at once, and drove them back, and cursed 
 us all for a set of heretics, who would put the 
 decent woman out of sight without waking her. 
 Tbey laid the corpse on top of some chests in 
 the centre of the ship, surrounded it by candles, 
 and then the keening began, which drove me 
 nearly into hysterics. The captain, hearing 
 what was going on, sent down a keg of rum, 
 and we spent an awful night. Towards morn- 
 ing, when the drink had taken effect, they 
 began to quarrel, and the noise and confusion 
 was terrible. As there was no partition, we 
 could see the whole length of the hold, with the 
 rows of berths on either side, and to the far 
 
 •-11 
 
 II 
 
 
 ■ I 
 
■A" 
 
 106 
 
 GLEANER TILES 
 
 end, ia the middlei of the ship, was the white 
 heap formed by the corpse and lighted by 
 candles, with the women sitting around it, 
 wailing in the most unearthly way, and taking 
 no heed of men and children who swarmed 
 outside of them, talking, shouting, pushing, and 
 fighting. A candle was knocked down and 
 there was a cry of fire, but an old woman 
 smothered it with her cloak. As we could not 
 sleep, and were afraid they might come to our 
 end of the ship and attack us, we went on 
 deck and waited till all was over. It was a 
 cold, raw morning, with not enough of wind 
 to keep the ship from pitching, but anything 
 was better than being below. When the eight 
 o'clock bell was struck, the Irish came swarm- 
 ing up, bearing the corpse. They rested it 
 awhile by the bulwarks, when all, even to the 
 smallest child, fell on their knees in prayer. 
 Then it was lifted over and let drop into the 
 ocean. The sailors did not help, keeping by 
 themselves on the forecastle, for they were 
 afraid of the infection. As four days passed 
 without a new case, we were beginning to hope 
 the danger was passed, but on the fifth three 
 children took ill, and before the week was done 
 there were 17 down. After that the disease 
 
A settler's story 
 
 107 
 
 bad its own way, and deaths were so common 
 that it was impossible to hold wakes. We 
 pitied the poor creatures, and gave more than 
 we could spare to help them. The worst want 
 of the sick was water and though it smelt so 
 that a horse would not have touched it and not 
 worth the saving, for there was plenty on 
 board such as it was, the captain would not 
 order that the allowance be increased. I can- 
 not begin to tell you of the scenes we had to 
 endure ; it was of Qod's mercy that they did 
 not take away our senses. If the ship was 
 dirty before the fever broke out, it was worse 
 now, and the smell, as you stepped down from 
 the deck, was like to knock you down. None 
 of our folk, with one sorrowful exception, took 
 the disease, which was not considered strange by 
 the Irish, for they accounted the taking away 
 of the sick/especially of the young, as a sign of 
 favor by the saints, who carried them to glory. 
 The exception was my husband. When about to 
 raise a tin of tea to his lips one morning, he 
 saw a child looking at him from her berth with 
 such entreating eyes, that he went over and 
 held the vessel to the girl's mouth. When 
 she was satisfied, he drank what was left. Three 
 days after he complained of a racking headache, 
 
 - - 1 
 
 
 
108 
 
 QLIAKER TALES 
 
 which was followed by a ehill, and after that 
 the fever set io. Just becanse he was such a 
 lusty mao the disease went hard with him, and 
 on the tenth day of his illness I saw there was 
 no hope. It was in the afternoon as I sat by 
 him, listening to his ravings, that he suddenly 
 sat up, and pointing to the shaft of sunshine 
 that poured down the hatchway into the dark 
 and loathsome hold, he said, 'It fa's on the 
 Cheviots and glints oh the Tweed e'noo; let 
 me bask in't anoe mair/ We carried him ower 
 and liid him in the sunlight. The delirium 
 left him, and a sweet sknile came to his face. 
 'Hae you ony thing to say f I whispered in his 
 ear. 'No, Mailie,* he answered softly, 'lam 
 quite happy an' feel the grip o' my Saviour's 
 ban': Qod bless you an' tho bairHs.' He never 
 opened his een mair, but the smile lingered on 
 his lips until the sun hftgui to sink, itnd as be 
 felt the glow leave his cheek, he muttered, 'It's 
 growin' late and the nicht will be ower cauld 
 for the lammies; I'll ca the rwes frae the 
 knowes,' and sae saying he slipped awn wi' the 
 Great Shepherd o' the Sheep to the lown valley 
 and the still waters. Though my sorrow was 
 like to rive my head, I kept my composure, for 
 there was work to be done, and nothing can 
 
A SIBTTLI&^S STORY 109 
 
 ezouse negtMt of duty. I prepured bim for 
 burUI, and when all was ready, an old friend, a 
 brother shepherd of my haeband's from a boy, 
 gave out the OOih pealm, and wben it bad been 
 sung, be read the 14th chapter of John, and 
 offered op a most aoal-striving prayer to God, 
 so that, when the corpse was lifted, there was 
 not a dry cheek. We followed as it was carried 
 up to the deck. The ship was on the Banks of 
 Newfoundland, ';nd the ocean was a dead calm, 
 the new moon lighting up the thin bace of mist 
 that lay upon it. I bad wrapped my husband 
 in his plaid, and thrust bis crook lengthways 
 through the outer fold. Holding each an end 
 of it, two of the strongest of our men swung 
 the body well out from the ship's side. As it 
 disappeared I felt that my love for man as wife 
 had gone with it, and sic a sense of desolation 
 came over me as words cannot tell. 
 
 Nine days after we came to quarantine, 
 where the sick were landed, and, just seven 
 weeks and two days from the time we left 
 Scotland, we sailed into Quebec harbor. We 
 were then a small and heartbroken handful, 
 compared with what started. Our chests bad 
 been brought on deck and we sat on them, 
 waiting for the steamer tbat was to carry us to 
 
Illi. 
 
 110 
 
 QLEANEB TALES 
 
 Montreal. None of our folk had asked me 
 what I was going to do, and I knew the reason 
 was not that they did not want to help me, but 
 that they had more than they could do to mind 
 themselves. They felt for me sore, but they 
 could not take the bite out of their own chil- 
 dren's mouths to give to mine. Indeed, there 
 was hardly one of them that knew what they 
 were going to do, and had come to Canada to 
 seek new homes on chance. I had had my 
 own thoughts and had marked out what I 
 would try to do. 
 
 * There's the steamer; get yer bairns the- 
 gither and TU look to yer kists.' 
 
 It was a hard-favored man that spoke, a 
 shepherd named Braxton from Cumberland, 
 who all the voyage had hardly said a word. 
 Glad of his help I obeyed. On the way up 
 he bought milk and bread for us, never saying 
 aught, until Montreal was in sight. 
 
 'What beest thou gaun to do V he asked. I 
 said I was going to bide in Montreal and try 
 to get something to do. He gave a kind of a 
 snort. 
 
 *Ye canna mak eneugh to keep five bairns; 
 ye'd better come wi' me.' 
 
 'Where till r I asked. 
 
A SETTLERS STORY 
 
 111 
 
 'I dinna knaw yet, but I'se get Ian* some- 
 where near and ye'se keep house for me.' 
 
 'Are ye a single man V he nodded. I sat 
 thinking. He was a stranger to me beyond 
 what I had seen of him on the ship. Could I 
 trust him ? Here was a home for my children 
 in the meanwhile. For their sake would I do 
 right to refuse the chance ? My mind was 
 made up, and I told him I would go with him. 
 
 'I canna offer thee wages/ he said. 
 
 *I dinna ask any.' 
 
 'Very well/ he replied, and no more was said. 
 
 By this time they had yoked the steamer to 
 a string of oxen, which helped it up the cur- 
 rent into the harbor, and in course of an hour 
 we were in Sandy Shaw's tavern. In answer 
 to Braxton, the landlord told him of there 
 being bush land easy to be had near to the 
 city. Next day he left tc see it, and it was 
 after dark on the third day when he came 
 back. He had got a lot on the Chateaugay, 
 and we were to start for it early next day. I 
 had the children dressed soon after daylight, 
 and the three youngest rode on the cart that 
 was to take our chests to Lachine. The rest of 
 us followed on foot. It was a fine morning, 
 but very warm, and the road was deep with 
 
 k 
 
 r*a»./ 
 
in 
 
 QLEANEB TALES 
 
 dust, which was like to choke us. When we 
 got to Lachine we were disappointed to find 
 that the ferry-boat was unable to leave her 
 wharf owing to the strong wind that was 
 coming down the lake and which had raised a 
 heavy sea. We sat on our boxes and spent a 
 weary day, my head being just like to split 
 with the heat and the shouting and jabbering 
 of the bateaumen. There were several hun- 
 dred emigrants waiting besides us, for the 
 Durham boats could not start until the wind 
 changed. We could not get a bite to buy, for 
 the Canadians were all afraid of us on account 
 of the fever, and they had reason, for among 
 those waiting were many who had been sick of 
 it, and there were some who were so white and 
 thin that you would say that the hand of death 
 was upon them. Towards sunset the wind 
 went down and the lake got calmer, so we 
 went on board the ferry, and we started. Her 
 paddles were driven not by a steam-engine but 
 a pair of horses, which went round and round. 
 It was a fine moonlight night, so when we 
 were put off at the Basin, we thought we would 
 push on to Reeves's, for it would be cooler than 
 to walk next day, and we might thereby catch 
 the ciDoes Braxton had bespoke. A cart was 
 
A settler's story 
 
 113 
 
 got for our chests and the younger children, 
 and we set off. We got along very well for 
 about 3 miles, when we heard distant thunder, 
 and half an hour after the sky was clouded 
 and we saw a storm would soon burst. We 
 stopped at several houses, but none would give 
 us shelter. As soon as the habitants saw we 
 were emigrants, they shut the door in our face, 
 being afraid of the fever. When the rain 
 began to fall, the boy who was driving hauled 
 up under some trees by the river-side. and I 
 got under the cart with the children. It just 
 poured for about half an hour and the light- 
 ning and thunder was fearful. We were soon 
 wet to the skin, and I felt so desolate and lone- 
 some, that I drew my shawl over my head, 
 and, hugging my youngest child to my bosom, 
 had a good cry. Those born here cannot 
 understand how castdown and solitary new- 
 comers feel in a strange land. For months 
 after I came, the tear would start to my eye 
 whenever I thought of Scotland. Well, the 
 storm passed away, and the moon came out 
 bright again in a clear sky. It was much 
 cooler, but the roads were awful, and we went 
 on, slipping at every step or splashing through 
 mud-holes. Had I not been so much concerned 
 If ^ 
 
lii'^^ 
 
 
 f' i<l 
 
 
 114 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 about the children, I could never have got 
 through that night; helping and cheering them 
 made me forget my own weariness. It was 
 getting to be daylight when the cart at last 
 halted in front of a long stone house, in which 
 there was not a soul stirring,^ though the doors 
 were all open. The boy pointed us to where 
 . the kitchen was and turned to unyoke his 
 horse. I found four men sleeping on the floor, 
 who woke up as we went in. They were all 
 French and very civil, giving up the buffaloes 
 they had been sleeping upon for the children, 
 I sat down on a rocking-chair, and fell at once 
 asleep. The sound of somebody stamping past 
 woke me with a start. It was the master 
 of the house, a lame man, whom I found out 
 after to be very keen but honest and kind in 
 his way. It was well on in the day, and they 
 were putting breakfast on the table. I was so 
 tired and sore that I could hardly move. Brax- 
 ton came in and asked if we were able to go 
 on, for the canoes would be ready to start in 
 an hour. I was determined he should not be 
 hindered by me, so I woke up the children 
 washed and tidied them as I best could, 
 wo had breakfast, which did us a heap of good i 
 There were two canoes, which were just loog 
 
A settler's story 
 
 115 
 
 flafc boats, "with two men in each to manage 
 them. Our baggage and ourselves were divided 
 equally between them, and we started, every- 
 thing looking most fresh and beautiful, but the 
 mosquitoes were just awful on the water, the 
 children's faces swelling into lumps, and be- 
 tween them end the heat they got very fretful. 
 For a loiig way after leaving Reeves's there 
 were breaks in the bush that lined the river 
 banks — the clearances of settlers with shanties 
 in front— but they grew fewer as we went on, 
 until wo would go a long way without seeing 
 anything but the trees, that grew down to the 
 water's edge. Getting round the rapids was 
 very tiresome, so that it was late in the day 
 when the men turne^^. the canoes into a creek 
 and pulled up alongside its west bank. Thia 
 was our lot and where we were to stay. Placing 
 our boxes so as to form a sort of wall, the 
 canoemen felled some small cedars for a roof, 
 and, lighting a fire, they then left us. I 
 watched the boats until they were rowed out 
 of sight, and then felt, for the first time, what 
 it is to be alone in the backwoods. There was 
 ISO much to do that I had no time to think of 
 lanything, and the children were happy, every- 
 Ithing being new to them. The kettle was 
 
 1 : 
 
116 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 boiled, and we had our first meal on our farm 
 — if you had seen it, with the underbrush 
 around us so thick that we could not go six 
 rods, you would have said it could never be 
 made a farm. 
 
 We slept that night under our cover of cedar 
 bushes and slept sound, though the mosquitoes 
 were most annoying. In the morning Braxton 
 and my oldest boy started down the track, for 
 it was no road, that followed the bank of the 
 Chateaugay, to see if the settlers below would 
 come to help to raise a shanty, and while they 
 were gone I did my best to get things into 
 order. For all I had come through, there was 
 a lightness in my heart, for there is a freedom 
 and hopefulness in living in the woods that 
 nothing else seems to give one, and I made 
 child's play of discomforts that would have 
 broken my heart had I been told of them 
 before leaving Scotland. It was nigh noon 
 when Braxton came back. He had been made 
 welcome everywhere, and the promise given 
 that word would be sent to all within reach to 
 come to a bee next day. After dinner he took 
 the axe and tried his hand at chopping. He j 
 began on a tree about half a foot thick and waij 
 nicking it all round, we looking on and admiriosj 
 
A settlek's story 
 
 117 
 
 'Ye'U kill somebody with that tree/ said a 
 voice behind us, and to our astonishment we 
 saw a tall woman, in a poke-bonnet, standing 
 behind us. Explaining that it was necessary 
 to know how a tree would fall, she showed 
 how any direction could be secured by the way 
 it was chopped, and, seizing the axe, she 
 showed how, and, under her strokes, the first 
 tree fell amid the shouts of the children. She 
 was the wife of our nearest neighbor, and, on 
 hearing of our arrival, had come over to see us, 
 'Being real glad,' as she said, 'to have a woman 
 so near.' She stayed an hour, and after finding 
 out all about us, showed me how to do a great 
 many things needful in bush-life. Among the 
 rest she showed us how to make a smudge to 
 protect us from the mosquitoes, which was a real 
 comfort. 
 
 Next morning six men came and spent the 
 day in clearing space for the shanty and in 
 making logs for it. The day after, Braxton 
 with two of the men went up to Todd's to buy 
 boards and rafted them down the river. On 
 the third day the raising took place, and that 
 night, though it was not finished, we slept in 
 it, and proud we were, for the house as well as 
 the land was our own. It was quite a while 
 
 
 wi 
 
 mi 
 
 t 
 
 * 
 
118 
 
 GLEAKEB TALES 
 
 before Braxton could finish it, for there was 
 other work to do, and for a month and more 
 our only door was a blanket. The fire was on 
 the hearth with an open chimney ^^ade of poles 
 covered with clay. And here I must tell of 
 my first trial at baking. We had brought a 
 bag of flour and, once established in our shanty, 
 I resolved to make a loaf. As you know, in 
 Scotland there is no baking of bread in the 
 houses of the commonality, and though nobody 
 could beat me at scones or oat cake, I had 
 never seen a loaf made. I thought, however^ 
 there was no great knack about it. I knew 
 hops were needed, and sent one of my boys 
 with a pail to borrow some from mj; neighbor, 
 who sent it back half full. I set to work, and 
 after making a nice dough I mixed the hops 
 with it, and moulded a loaf, which my oldest 
 son, who had seen the process while visiting 
 round, undertook to bake. He put it into a 
 Dutch oven, or chaudron, and heaping hofc 
 ashes over it, kept the dish in them for an hour, 
 when it was taken out and the cover lifted. 
 Instead of a nice, well-raised lucif, there was 
 just a flat black cake at the bottom of the dish. 
 'Maybe it will taste better than it looks,' says 
 I, thrusting a knife at it, but the point was 
 
A settlsb's stoby. 
 
 119 
 
 turned, and we found our loaf to be so hard 
 that you could have broken it with a hammer. 
 And the taste ! It was bitter as gall. W-^U, 
 that was a good lesson to me, and I was not 
 above asking my neighbors after that about 
 matters on which I was ignorant. 
 
 No sooner had shelter been provided for us, 
 than we all turned to with hearty will to clear 
 up a bit of land. My boys were a great help, 
 and the oldest got to be very handy with the 
 axe, which was well, for Braxton never got into 
 the hang of using it easily, and spent double 
 the strength in doing the same work my boy 
 did. There is quite an art in chopping. It 
 was exhausting work clearing up the land, 
 being quite new to us and the weather very 
 hot. Often had Braxton to lay down his axe 
 and bathe his head in the creek, but he never 
 stopped, working from dawn to darkening, and 
 when it was moonlight still longer. I helped 
 to brush and log, as much to encourage my 
 boys to help as for all I could do. When ready 
 to bum, three neighbors came to show us how 
 to do it and, the logs being large and full of 
 sap, it was a slow and laborious job. The men 
 looked like Blackamoors, being blacker than 
 any sweeps, from the smoke and the coom that 
 
 W: 
 
 11 
 
 n 
 
120 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 rubbed off the logs, while the sweat just rolled 
 down them, owing to the heat of the fires and 
 the weather. We came on to our lot on the 
 Cth of June and it was the ^28th when the 
 remains of the log-heaps were handspiked out 
 of the way and the ground was made kind of 
 clear between the stumps on half an acre. In 
 the ashes we planted potatoes, and a week after 
 when a bit more land was taken in, we put in 
 a few more. This done, we turned to in order 
 to make potash. Except along the creek thore 
 was no timber on our lot fit for making ashes 
 but on its banks there was a fine cut of swale 
 elm. The chopping of the trees was the easiest 
 part of the work, the getting of them together 
 and burning them being much worse, the 
 underbrush being very thick and we ■> short of 
 help in handling the logs. A neighbor showed 
 us how to make a plan-heap and skid logs, but 
 from inexperience we did not work to much 
 advantage. We, however, wrought with a will 
 and kept at it, even my youngest, Ailie, help- 
 ing by fetching water to drink. Young people 
 nowadays have no idea of what work is, and I 
 don't suppose that one in twenty of them 
 would go through what their fathers and 
 mothers did. Although it was a dry summer. 
 
A settler's story 
 
 121 
 
 the banks of the creek were soft, so our feet 
 were wet all the time and we had to raise the 
 heaps on beds of logs to get them to burn. 
 Our first lot of ashes we lost. Before they 
 could be lifted into the leaches, a thunderstorm 
 came up and in a few minutes the labor of a 
 fortnight was spoiled. After that, we kept 
 them covered with strips of bark. 
 
 The neighbors were very kind. They had 
 little and not an hour to spare, but they never 
 grudged lending us a hand or sharing with us 
 anything we got out of. There was no pride 
 or ceremony then, and neighbors lived more 
 like as if they were of one family. One of 
 them who had a kettle lent it to us, and it was 
 fetched in a canoe, which was pushed up the 
 creek as far as it would go. Then the kettle 
 was lifted out and carried by main strength, 
 suspended on a pole. We had thought the 
 chopping, tho logging, and the burning bad 
 enough, (the carrying of water to the leaches 
 and the boiling of the lye was child's play) but 
 the melting of the salts was awful. Between 
 the exertion in stirring, the heat of the sun and 
 of the fire, flesh and blood could hardly bear 
 up. How we ever managed I do not know, 
 unless it was by keeping at it and aye at it, 
 
 is' 5 
 
122 
 
 OLEANEB TALES 
 
 but on the first week of October we had filled 
 a barrel with potash, and Reeves took it away 
 in one of his canoes and sold it in town for us, 
 on the understanding that we were to take the 
 pay out of his store. He made thus both 
 ways, and everything he kept was very dear. 
 I have paid him 25 cents a yard for common 
 calico and a dollar a pound for tea. We could 
 not help ourselves just then. 
 
 I should have told you our potatoes grew 
 wonderfully. There is a warmth in newly- 
 burned land or a nourishment in ashes, I don't 
 know which, that makes everything grow on 
 new land far beyond what they do elsewhere. 
 The frost held off well that Fall, and we lifted 
 all our crop in good order, except a few that 
 were very late planted, which did not ripen 
 properly. When we landed on our lot, Braxton 
 gave his last dollar to pay the canoemen, and I 
 had just 15 shillings left after paying the 
 boards we got at Todd's mill, so all we had to 
 put us over until another crop v/ould be raised, 
 was the potatoes and what we could make out 
 of potash. We were in no ^ay discouraged. 
 The work was slavish, but we were working 
 for ourselves in making a home ; the land was 
 our own, I might say, and every day it was 
 
A settleb's stobt 
 
 123 
 
 improving. We were quite cheerful and hope- 
 ful, and we all felt that we had something to 
 work for and it was worth our while to put up 
 with present hardship. I remember a neigh- 
 bor's wife, who was always miscalling Canada 
 and regretting she had come to it, being satis- 
 fied with nothing here. She said to her hus- 
 band one day, in my hearing, 'In Scotland you 
 had your two cows' grass and sae muckle meal 
 and potatoes, and we were bien and com- 
 fortable ; but ye wad leave, and dae better, and 
 this is yer Canada for you! 'Can you no baud 
 yer tongue, woman,' he replied, 'we hae a 
 prospect here. What we hadna in Scotland.' 
 That was just it, we had a prospect before us 
 that cheered lis on to thole our hardships. 
 
 I counted not the least of the drawbacks of 
 the bush, the lack of public ordinances. There 
 was no church to go to on Sabbath, and the 
 day was spent in idleness, mostly in visiting. 
 Sometimes the young men went fishing or 
 hunting, but that was not common in our 
 neighborhood, where the settlers observed it as 
 a day of rest, though without religious ob- 
 servance of any kind. Accustomed from a 
 child to go to kirk regularly in Scotland, I felt 
 out of my ordinary as each Sabbath came 
 
 I,. 
 
 if 
 
 .1 ^ 
 
'ii- if '■ 
 
 mm 
 
 124 
 
 GLEAi^ER TALES 
 
 round. To be sure, I taught the children their 
 catechism and we read the story of Joseph and 
 the two books of Kings before the Winter set 
 in, but that did not satisfy me. The nearest 
 preaching was at South Georgetown, and tho' 
 I heard no good of the mmister I wanted to 
 go. Somehow, something aye came in the way 
 every Sabbath morning I set. At last, it was 
 after the potatoes had been lifted and the out- 
 door work about over, one Sabbath morning in 
 October, a canoe, on its way down, stopped to 
 leave a message for us. This was my chance, 
 and getting ready I and my two oldest children 
 got on board, leaving the others in charge of 
 Braxton, and, for a quiet man, he got on well 
 with children, for he was fond of them. I 
 remember that sail as if it were yesterday — the 
 river smooth as a looking-glass, in which the 
 trees, glowing in the hazy sunlight with red 
 and yellow, keeked at themselves, and the very 
 spirit of peace seemed to hover in the air. Oh 
 it was soothing, and as I thought over all I had 
 come through since I left Scotland, and I could 
 not help thinking how different it had been six 
 months before, yet I found it in my heart to 
 thank Qod for all his goodness. It was late in 
 the day when we came in sight of the church, 
 
A settler's story 
 
 125 
 
 and ike sound of singiDg told us worship had 
 begun. Dundee was the tune, and as the 
 notes came softly to us over the water my 
 heart so melted within me to hear once again 
 the psalmody of Scotland that I had to turn 
 away my head to greet. Stepping ashore 
 where the church stood on the river bank, we 
 went quietly in. It was a bare shed of a place, 
 with planks set up for seats, and there were 
 not over thirty present. The minister was a 
 fresh-colored, presentable enough man, and 
 gave a very good sermon, from the 1 1th chapter 
 of Second Corinthians. While he was ex- 
 patiating on what the apostle had eufiered, 
 something seemed to strike him, and he siud, 
 *Aye, aye, Paul, ye went through much but ye 
 never cut down trees in Canada.' He spoke 
 feelingly, for he had to work like the rest of 
 his neighbors to earn his bread. One end ot 
 the church was boarded off, and in it he and 
 his wife lived. I will say no more about Mr 
 McWattie, for his failing was notorious When 
 worship was over, it was a groat treat to mix 
 with the folk. That we did itot know a soul 
 present made uo difference, for they were all 
 free and I made friendships that day that have 
 lasted to this. When he heard that I was from 
 
 Ik 
 
126 
 
 QLEAKEB TALES 
 
 I 
 
 iH-'L 
 
 *'] 
 
 the south of Scotland, Mr Brodie would take no 
 refusal and I had to go with him across the 
 river to his house, where we had dinner, and 
 after it set out to walk home. People now-a- 
 days think it a hardship to walk a mile to 
 church, but I knew many then who went four 
 or five, let the weather be what it might. It 
 was dark before wo got home, and that night 
 there was a frost that killed everything. The 
 weather kept fine, however, until December, 
 and we had no severe cold until the week 
 before New Year. 
 
 I cannot think of anything out of the com- 
 mon that first winter. Our neighbors wrought 
 at chopping cordwood to raft to Montreal in 
 the Spring, but Braxton could not, for he had 
 no oxen to draw the wood to the river-bank, so 
 he went on enlarging our clearance. I forgot 
 to say, that one of our North Georgetown ac- 
 quaintances gavd my oldest boy a pig in a 
 present, and we managed to keep the little 
 creature alive with the house-slop and boiling 
 the potatoes that did not ripen well. 
 
 We all suffered much from tho cold, which 
 was past anything we had any conception of 
 before coming *to Canada. Our shanty was so 
 open that it did little more than break the 
 
f 
 
 mm 
 
 A si:ttler*s story 
 
 127 
 
 wind, and water spilled on the floor at once 
 froze. We had plenty of wood, but it was 
 green, and the logs were fizzing and boiling out 
 the sap the day long, and it took Braxton quite 
 a while to learn that some kinds of wood burn 
 better than others. He was just as likely to 
 bring in a basswood or elm log as one of maple 
 or hemlock. The most of the heat went out at 
 the big chimney, so that while our faces would 
 ha bp.rning, our backs were cold. It was worst 
 w the mornings, when I would rise to find 
 everything solid, even the bread having to be 
 thawed, and the blankets so stiff from our 
 breaths and the snow that had sifted in that I 
 had to hang them near the fire to dry them. 
 We kept our health, however, and after the 
 middle of February the weather moderated. 
 In March, a deer, while crossing our clearance, 
 broke through the crust, and while floundering 
 in tb^ mow ^hs killed by two of my boys. 
 After Jiai they were on the watch, and ran 
 down and kdad two more with their axes. I 
 salted .md dried the hams, and but for them 
 we would have fared poorly. Having no kettle, 
 we mac'e only a little maple sugar that Spring 
 by lulling the sap in the broth-pot. 
 TI"^ ^>pri!?/» was late and wet, whicL was a 
 
 i 
 
 u 
 
 it 
 
 V t 
 
 
128 
 
 GLEANER TALCS. 
 
 great disappointment, for Braxton could not 
 burn the log-heaps he had ready and make 
 potash, on the money for which he counted to 
 buy provisions to put us over until harvest. 
 To make matters worse, provisions got to be 
 very scarce and dear, so that flour and oatmeal 
 sold at $5 the quintal, and often was not to be 
 had. One day, w'^^n quite out, I went to 
 Kutherford's, who k j; bit of a store, and he 
 h&d nothing, but wen. into the kitchen and 
 brought out a bowlful of the meal they had for 
 themselves. I went over the potatoes we had 
 cut for seed, and sliced off enough around the 
 eyes to make a dinner for us. In June, pro- 
 visions became more plentiful, for the boats 
 had begun to bring down supplies from Upper 
 Canada to Montreal. It was the middle of 
 that month before Braxton had a barrel of pot- 
 ash ready, and the money it brought did not 
 pay what we were due the storekeepers. We 
 were kept very bare that Summer, but had a 
 prospect before us in the three ac^es of crops, 
 which we had got in and which were doing 
 finely. 
 
 I can never forget that Summer from the 
 fright I had about Ailie. She was as sweet a 
 wee dot as there ,was in the world, so loving 
 
A SETTLEBS STORY 
 
 129 
 
 and confidiDg that she made friends with 
 everybody at sight. I was never tired of 
 watching her pretty ways and listening to her 
 merry prattle. We were throng one afternoon 
 leaching ashes, when suddenly my oldest boy 
 asked, 'Where's Ailie V I started, and remem- 
 bered that it was over an hour since I had seen 
 her. 'She'll have gone back to the ho«:se to 
 take a sleep/ I said, and I told one of her 
 sisters to go and see. We went on again, carry- 
 ing water, when, after a while, the lassie came 
 back with the word that she could not find 
 Ailie nowhere. We threw down our tubs and 
 dishes, and I shouted her name as loud as I 
 could, thinking she was nearby in the woods. 
 No answer came. 'She'll have fa'an asleep 
 under some bush, and doesna hear us,' I said, 
 and, with my children, we went here and there 
 searching for her, and calling her name, with- 
 out finding Ailie. Braxton was an knmovable 
 man, who seldom spoke or gave sign of what 
 he was thinking about, but when we were 
 together again and all had the same report, 
 his mouth quivered and he threw down the 
 wooden scoop with which he had been shovel- 
 ling ashes, and said, 'We'll dae nae mae wark 
 till we find the bairn.' This time we went 
 10 
 
 ii 
 
mm 
 
 m^^^^^^^^K, 
 
 130 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 more systematically about our search, but again 
 it was without avail. It was a hot July after- 
 noon, and the sunshine was so bright that it 
 lighted up the darkest nooks of the forest, but 
 in none of them was Ailie. When we met one 
 another in our search and learned that not a 
 trace had been found, a pang of agony went 
 through our hearts. Braxton followed the 
 creek and looked well along the bank of the 
 Chateaugay. It was not until the darkness 
 was settling so thick that we could not see, 
 that our shouts ana cries of 'Ailie' ceased to 
 sound through the bush. When we had re- 
 turned to the hou^ie, I stirred up the fire and 
 made supper. When we sat down, not one of 
 us could eat. Braxton bit a piece of bread, but 
 could not swallow it, and with a groan he left 
 the table. We talked over what should be 
 done next, and agreed to warn our neighbors to 
 come and help at daylight, which Braxton and 
 the boys went to do. None of us liked to 
 speak of what had befallen the child, though 
 we all had our own fears, that she had strayed 
 down to the Chateaugay and been drowned or 
 into the woods and a wild beast had devoured 
 her. Although they had not troubled us, we 
 knew there were bears and wolves in the 
 
A settler's story 
 
 131 
 
 swamps to the north of us and there was even 
 talk of a catamount having been seen. While 
 there was hope I was not going to lose heart, 
 and when I besought the Lord to restore my 
 last-born to my arms I thanked Him that the 
 night was so dry and warm that she could 
 come by no ill from the weather. I did not 
 sleep a wink that night, sitting at the door and 
 straiuiiig my hearing in the hope that I might 
 catch f he cry of my Ailie. Beside the croaking 
 of the frogs and the bit chirrup of some mother 
 bird that wakened in its nest and tucked her 
 youDg closer under her wings, I heard nothing. 
 When the stars were beginning to fade I set 
 about getting breakfast ready and wakened the 
 children. I had no need to call to Braxton. 
 Poor man, though he said not a word, I doubted 
 if he had closed an e'e. I insisted on them 
 making a hearty breakfast so as to be strong 
 for the work before them, and in the pockets 
 of each I put a slice of bread and a bit of 
 maple sugar for Ailie, should they find her, for 
 I knew she would be perishing from hunger. 
 At sunrise the neighbors began to drop in and 
 soon there was a party of over twenty. All 
 had their dogs and some of them had brought 
 axes and guns. It was arranged we should 
 
132 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 start oat in every direction, yet keeping so 
 close together as to be always within hearing. 
 By spreading out this way in a circle we would 
 be sure to examine every part of the bush, 
 while two men were to search the river bank 
 in a canoe. We started, some calling aloud, 
 others blowing horns or ringing ox-bells until 
 the woods were in an uproar, and all without 
 avail, for there was no Ailie to be found. What 
 could have come ower the bairn ? It was as if 
 the earth had opened and swallowed her up. 
 Aftei beating the bush for miles around we 
 gathered together again at noon, as had been 
 arranged. Not a trace had been found. We 
 talked it over and over and could make nothing 
 of what had become of her. One lad, new come 
 out and with his head full about Indians, sug- 
 gested that one of them might have stolen her, 
 and, indeed, it looked feasible, did we not know 
 that the few Indians we had were civil and 
 harmless. Had a wild beast taken her, we 
 would have found some fragments of her bit 
 dress. I was dumb with disappointment and 
 sorrow, and had begun to think I would never 
 see her alive. It was agreed among the men 
 that it would be useless to spread out further, 
 that we were now deeper in the woods than it 
 
A settler's story 
 
 133 
 
 was possible for her to have wandered, and 
 that we should use the afternoon in going back 
 over the ground we had come and making a 
 better examination of it. We went back slowly, 
 stopping to look at every tree and going through 
 every hollow, and, though there was once a 
 shout that her trail had been struck, it proved 
 a mistake, and our second scouring of the 
 woods was as fruitless as the first. The sun 
 was fast westering when we drew nigh our 
 shanty. About ten acres back of it there was 
 a waterhole, a low wet spot which aU of us had 
 gone round, nobody deeming it possible for the 
 child to have put foot upon it. As I looked at 
 the black oozy muck, half floating in water, 
 the thought struck me, the toddler could walk 
 where a grown-up person would sink, and with- 
 out saying a word to the lad who was my com- 
 panion at the time, I drew ofi my shoes and 
 stockings, and, kilting my petticoat, stepped in. 
 How I wrestled through it I do not know, but 
 once in I had to scramble as I best could, and I 
 reached a dry q>ot in the centre that was like 
 an island, and on which a few bushes grew, 
 poverod with glaur and wringing wet. No 
 sooner had I got my footing than I heard a 
 jTustle. t was panting for breathy an4 so esc* 
 
 
 Is 
 him 
 
K 
 
 134 
 
 GLEAXEB TALES 
 
 hausted that I was about to lie down for a 
 little, but that sound revived hope in me. I 
 raised my head to look through the bushes and 
 saw a deer gazing at me. The creature stared, 
 without moving, which was strange for so timid 
 an animal. I slipped through an opening in 
 the bushes and there, in a grassy plot in the 
 centre of them, lay my Ailie asleep, crusted 
 with muck, and with her arms clasped round 
 the neck of a young deer. Her wee bit face 
 was black with dirt and streaked where the 
 tears had been running down. I snatched her 
 to my bosom and sinking down I hugged and 
 cried over her like one demented. Oh, had 
 you heard her joyful cry of 'Mammie, mammie !' 
 and seen her lift her bit pinched mou to mine, 
 you would have cried with us. The deer did 
 not stir but stood looking on, startled and won- 
 dering, while the fawn lay quietly beside me. 
 This was a mystery, which I soon solved, for I 
 found the fawn could not move from having a 
 broken leg, and the mother would not leave her 
 young one. The shout of Ailie's being found 
 soon brought plenty of help, and the first man 
 that came made to kill the deer, but I prevented 
 him and could not, ever after, bear him near 
 me. There are savages among us who cannot 
 
 ■|lil'-\ :;-*)f;. 
 
A settler's story. 
 
 135 
 
 see any of Qod's creatures, however harmless, 
 in a state of nature, without trying to take 
 their lives. Sportsmen, indeed ! Useless louts, 
 I ca' them, wha wad do the country a service 
 gin they were to use their powder and shot in 
 killing ane anither. The fallen tree, by which 
 the deer got across the swale to its well-hidden 
 nest, was found, and I returned by it, carrying 
 Ailie, while Braxton took the fawn in his arms, 
 the mother following. There was much re- 
 joicing at our humble shanty before our neigh- 
 bors left, and many attempts to account for 
 Ailie's wandering to where she did. She was 
 weak from want of food and I feared she might 
 be the worse of her exposure, but next day, 
 beyond that she was pale, she was well as ever. 
 From what we could gather from her, we made 
 out tolerably plain how her disappearance had 
 had come about While playing near the house > 
 she saw the deer come out of the woods, jump 
 the fence of our clearance, and begin to browse 
 on the oats. Ailie saw the fawn and ran to 
 catch the bonnie creature, when the mother 
 took the alarm, and bounded back into the 
 woods. In attempting to follow, the fawn 
 struck one of its hind feet against the top rail 
 of the fence^ and broke the bone. Ailie caught 
 
 
 1^ 
 
136 
 
 QLEJLNER TALES 
 
 iairaB^' 
 
 the wee beastie, and held it in her arms, when 
 the doe returned, bunted her away, and man- 
 aged to induce its young one to hirple after it 
 on three legs to its lair in the bit swamp. 
 Ailie, wanting to have the fawn, followed, 
 which she could do, for they must have gone 
 very slow, and, when tired of fondling the 
 creature, she would have returned home, she 
 could not find the way out, and cried and slept, 
 and slept and cried, crocdling down beside the 
 wounded fawn as it nestled under its mother, 
 ' which, from its concern for its injured offspring, 
 never tried to drive Ailie away. Well, Braxton 
 set the broken bone and the leg g )t strong and 
 well, but before it did the fawn had become so 
 attached to Ailie that it followed her like a 
 dog, and the mother, which watched over its 
 offspring in the most touching way, was so ac- 
 cust )med to us and became so tame that it did 
 not offer to leave, running in the woods where 
 it had a mind, and making its home in a shed 
 my boys put up for her. She was torn to 
 death, two years after, by a hound that a 
 Yankee neer-do-weel brought in, but the fawn 
 lived with us and died of a natural death. It 
 was bothersome in its ways at times, but we 
 bpre with it for I^e*a sake, 
 
A settler's story 
 
 137 
 
 J, when 
 1 man- 
 after it 
 swamp, 
 allowed, 
 ^ve gone 
 ling the 
 )me> she 
 nd slept, 
 sside the 
 \ mother, 
 jffspring, 
 , Braxton 
 irong and 
 become so 
 er like a 
 
 over its 
 ras so ac- 
 hat it did 
 ods where 
 
 in a shed 
 a torn to 
 dd that a 
 t the fawn 
 death. It 
 les, but we 
 
 We had a fair harvest that Fall, and, when 
 it was got in, we had the satisfaction of know- 
 ing that we would have enough to eat until 
 another was ready. There being no oatmeal- 
 mill then in the country, Braxton traded half 
 of the oats for wheat with a neighbor who 
 wanted them for a lumber-camp. There was a 
 grist-mill convenient at the Portage, which waf* 
 burned the following summer, after which we 
 had to send all the way to Huntingdon, where 
 there was a poor sort of a mill. Having no 
 horse, the bag was carried by Braxton on his 
 shoulder. The want of a yoke of o^ ;n was 
 so much against our getting on, that we de- 
 termined to run some risk in getting one, and 
 saved in every way possible with that in view. 
 The week before New Year we hired a horse 
 and traineau from a neighbor, paying him in 
 work, and Braxton went to Montreal with two 
 barrels of potash. On his way down he had 
 the offer at the Basin of a heifer that was 
 coming in, and instead of buying the cloth in- 
 tended, he saved the money, and took her on 
 his way home. She was a real beauty, and, 
 out of all the cows we had after, there was not 
 one to me like her, she was so kindly and 
 proved such a grand miU^er. We wore «U so 
 
 i 
 
138 
 
 CLEANER TALES 
 
 proud of her, that for a week after she came 
 we never tired looking at her, and the children 
 were comforted for the want of the clothing 
 they needed by having her for a pet. You 
 may not think it, but the sorest want of our 
 settlement was clothes. When those brought 
 from the Old Country were done, there was no 
 money to spare to buy others, and familiec who 
 had plenty to eat went half-naked, you may 
 say, and on very cold days could not venture 
 out. I did the best I could, patching and darn- 
 ing, yet we all suflfored much from cold that 
 winter on account of want of sufficient clothing. 
 Braxton, poor man, had only a thickness of 
 cloth between him and the weather, yet he 
 never complained and went out to hia work in 
 the bush on the coldest days. The exposure, 
 together with hard work, told on him after- 
 wards, however, and shortened his life. When 
 the lumber-camps were breaking up, we had a 
 chance of a yoke of oxen within our ability to 
 pay for, and they were brought home to the 
 barn that had been raised before the snow 
 came. We had not straw enough for three 
 head, but managed to keep them alive by cut- 
 ting down trees for them to aat the tender ends 
 of the branches. Many a pailful of browse I 
 
A settler's story 
 
 139 
 
 SDapped off for my bossie that Spring. It was ' 
 well for us the grass came early. 
 
 I do not know that I have much more to tell 
 that would interest you. The oxen gave us a 
 great start in clearing the land, and that season 
 we did more than all we had done before. We 
 paid the seigrior regularly, and, once we got a 
 little ahead, it was wonderful how well we 
 got on. Then you must bear in mind, that, as 
 my boys grew older, they wore a great help, 
 and our place improved quickly compared with 
 the generality of those beside us. That Fall 
 we got another cow and two sheep, so that we 
 never afterwards wanted for milk or yarn. It 
 was a hard struggle, with many ups and downs, 
 much slavish work and pinching and paring, 
 but in course of time we had all we could 
 reasonably wish and were content. 
 
 I was long concerned about the schooling of 
 my children, of whom only two had got any 
 before leaving ScotUnd. We could not help 
 ourselves until the fourth year of our coming, 
 when a man, lame of a leg, came round and 
 told us he was a schoolmaster. The neighbors 
 consulted and one of them gave a log stable he 
 was not using, which was fitted up as a school- 
 house, and the ipan 3et to work. He could 
 
■> 1 » 
 
 m 
 
 140 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 teach his scholars little, and tried to txak% up 
 for his deficiencies by threshing them nnmerci- 
 foUy. He was got rid of and another hired, 
 who was more qualified hat was given to drink. 
 They were a miserable lot of teachers in those 
 days, ? ing generally either lazy or drnnken 
 fellows who took to keeping school withrit 
 considering whether they were qualified. In 
 course of time we had a church at Durham, Mr 
 Colquh^mn, a proud Highlander, being the first 
 minister. When we came there was only one 
 (old Jones) living where Durham stands, now it 
 is a laige village, with buildings the like of 
 which nobody could have expected to see. 
 There has been i^ wonderful improvement all 
 over, and, whe& I first saw it, to have f^nretold 
 the country would have become what it is, no- 
 body would have believed. That the people 
 have improved correspondingly I don*i think. 
 The m<mey scraped togeC^^r by the hard work 
 of their fathers, I have seen squaodered by lads 
 who despised the plow, and the upsetting ways 
 of many families are pitiful to see. Folk in 
 the old times lived far more simply and happily. 
 You want to know what became of Braxton. 
 He died 14 years after we came here. It was 
 in the winter and I tlxMighi he had caught cold 
 
'Wi 
 
 A sxttleb's story 
 
 141 
 
 while skidding logs in the bush. Anj way, 
 inflammation set in, and he died within a fort- 
 night of his first complaining. We mourned 
 sorely for him, and a more patient or truer soul 
 never breathed, and to the example he set my 
 boys, who have all done well, I set down much 
 of the credit We counted up his share of the 
 property, and, adding j&20 to it, sent it to his 
 sister in EngUmd, who was his only relative. 
 I may say all my old acquaintances are gone, 
 for there are few now on the river who were 
 there when I came, and I wait patiently to 
 follow them/ living happily, as you see, with 
 Ailie and her children until the Lord is pleased 
 to call me. 
 

 
 ABNER'S DEVICE .♦ 
 
 'Abner, I want you to go a message for me 
 after breakfast/ 
 
 *Yes, mother. Is it to Four Corners V 
 
 'No; you are to go to the Elands, with a 
 basket for old Mrs Whiting/ 
 
 *Why, that's in Canada, and they're our 
 enemies/ 
 
 'Our governments are at war, but we old 
 neighbors are not' 
 
 'But the Indian guard may catch me/ 
 
 *If they do, they'll not harm a boy like you/ 
 
 'Yes, they would, mother. They'd scalp any- 
 thing that's Yankee, and I hate them and every 
 Britisher. I don't see why you'd want to do a 
 good turn to those who've been trying these 
 two years to cut our throats and burn our 
 houses/ 
 
 'Abner !' exclaimed Mrs Smith reproachfully. 
 
 'I want to hit them every time, mother, and 
 if I have got to go, you'll let me take father's 
 rifle/ 
 
 * W»8 written for The Youth's Companion of Boston. 
 
A-bner's device 
 
 143 
 
 *No, Abner ; you'll go as you are, and if the 
 Indian guard fall in with you, their captain 
 will let you go when you tell your errand. If 
 Congress want to fight King George, that's not 
 to say we are to hate and hurt those we have 
 lived beside so long and who've done us many 
 a kindness.' 
 
 The conversation took place in the log shanty 
 of a first settler in Northern New York in the 
 Fall of 1813. War was then in progress, and 
 a few days before, General Hampton had re- 
 turned from his attempt to reach Montreal, and 
 with his withdrawal to winter quarters the 
 settlers along the frontier supposed hostilities 
 were ended for the season. When war had 
 been declared the settlers on the American side 
 of the lines were in terror of being visited by 
 the Indians, whom the British government had 
 enrolled to watch th3 frontier, but as timo 
 proved their apprehensions groundless, they 
 were little affected by the contest that was 
 being waged, beyond having their intercourse 
 with the settlers on the Canadian side restricted^ 
 and that intercourse had been close and fre- 
 quent, for the difference in allegiance had not 
 affected their friendship. In the bush distance 
 goes for little, and though five miles apart, the 
 
 d 
 
 1 1 
 
1-- ?^ 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 ri: 
 
 --0. 
 
 144 
 
 OLEiLNEa TALES. 
 
 BlancU were Mrs Smith's nearest neighbors to 
 the north, and their relation had been of the 
 warmest kind. Unable from the presence of 
 Hampton's camp at Four Comers, from doing 
 their trading there, Mrs Smith knew that the 
 Blaods must be without groceries and even 
 flour, and, at this, the first safe opportunity, 
 she was eager to send them some little comforts 
 to vary their coarse fare, especially for Mrs 
 Whiting, the grandmother of the household, 
 who was often bed-ridden from rheumatism. 
 
 The basket was ready for Abner by the time 
 he had finished breakfast. His imagination 
 had been fired by seeing the soldiers at Fort 
 Hickory and at Four Corners, and to carry the 
 basket in the usual way was out of the ques- 
 tion. Securing thin withe-ropes, made from 
 the bark of the moosewood, he slung the basket 
 on Ibis shoulders like a knapsack, and catching 
 up a cedar pole he grasped it as if it were a 
 musket, and shouting to himself the order, 
 'Eyes fiont; right foot forward; quick march !' 
 off he set, fancying himself one of Col. Purdy's 
 crack brigade. Mrs Smith as, from the door, 
 she watched her boy depart on his errand, 
 while she smiled at his wayward fancy, could 
 not help feeling a thrUl of pride in his lithe, 
 
ABNER S DEVICE 
 
 145 
 
 active figure, giving promise of a handsome 
 manhood. That he was shrewd and quick- 
 witted, as well as tall and strong, for his years, 
 she well knew. 
 
 The weather had been extremely wet for the 
 season ; the ground was soaked and the leaves 
 had long ago been washed from all the trees 
 except the beech. During the night the rain 
 had ceased, and the morning, dull and hazy, 
 gave promise of a dry day. Once out of his 
 father's clearance, Abner's way lay through the 
 bush. There was a foot track that led to the 
 Elands, but now it was so hidden by the litter 
 of leaves that it was indiscernible. That did 
 not signify. Born in the woods, they were so 
 familiar that Abner could find his way in any 
 direction he chose, with as much ease as the 
 dwellers in cities traverse their intricacies of 
 streets and lanes. As he threaded his way 
 among the trees, the chatter of the chipmunk, 
 the whirr of the partridge, and the tapping of 
 a belated woodpecker were the only sounds 
 that fell on his ear, and no sight more unusual 
 than an occasional grey-squirrel and troop of 
 deer. When he had crossed the line that div- 
 ides Chateaugay from Hinchinbrook, and was 
 fairly in Canadian territory, he became more 
 
 11 
 
 ;i \ 
 
 
 ^M 
 
\i 
 
 \r *' 
 
 146 QLEANEB TILES 
 
 circumspect, and his fancy changed. He was 
 no longer the right-hand man of a file of 
 soldiers, hut a scout, sent into the enemy's 
 country to get information. Keeping under 
 every cover that offered, looking furtively 
 around before venturing to cross any open that 
 came in his way, treading on the hardest ground 
 he could find, and doubling on his track where 
 the soil treacherously retained his footprints, 
 he found playing at Abner the spy much more 
 exciting than that of Abner the soldier. Sud- 
 denly a strange, crackling sound arrested his 
 footsteps. It was, he knew, no noise made by 
 any denizen of the forest, and he turned to- 
 wards whence it came. Soon he caught the 
 faint odor of smoke, and then he knew there 
 was a fire near — probably the camp-fire of the 
 British rangers. Prudence whispered to him 
 to turn aside and pass on ; curiosity, to go and 
 have a peep at the camp. He was only a boy 
 of fourteen, and curiosity carried the day. 
 Slowly he stole towards the point whence the 
 crackling sound of fire came, and so noiselessly 
 that even the squirrels failed to start at his ap- 
 proach until he passed their perch. Now he 
 could see the smoke, and next the faint glare of 
 the embers. He thought he saw the figure of a 
 
'■• i 
 
 ABKEft'S DEVICE 
 
 147 
 
 man, bat as, when he looked again, the shape 
 was gone, he thought he had been mistaken. 
 He paused to listen. There was no sound save 
 the drumming of a partridge behind him. Re- 
 doubling his caution, he crawled towards the 
 spot whence the smoke rose, and when he 
 slowly lifted his head from behind a thicket, 
 he was startled to find himself looking into a 
 camp of the dreaded Indian guard, of whom he 
 had so often heard but never seen. There they 
 were, 21 in number, lyiug prostrate in sleep in 
 a circle around the fire and the pale autumn 
 sunshine streaming down upon them. Uncouth 
 looking men they were, with daubs of paint on 
 their faces that made them hideous. Beside 
 each one lay his musket, and some even, in 
 their sleep, grasped their hatchets, prepared, if 
 surprised, for immediate combat. Their captain 
 Abner recognised from his being white and 
 wearing the sword and crimson sash of a 
 British officer. With eager eye Abner scanned 
 the unexpected sight, and when the first feel- 
 ing of fear died away, he grew bold and 
 thought of what he might have accomplished 
 had his mother allowed hioii to take his father's 
 rifle with him. The exploits of Robert Rogers 
 and Ethan Allen floated before his mind's eye 
 
148 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 ii) ■ '• 
 
 >-i 
 
 and he planned how, had he been armed, he 
 might have shot the captain through the heart 
 and have disappeared before any of the sleep- 
 ing group knew what had happened. Satisfied 
 with the sight, he moved to withdraw and re- 
 sume his journey. At the first attempt to turn 
 around, his arms were seized with a grasp of 
 iron, and, looking up, he saw he was in the 
 hands of an Indian, whose painted visage glared 
 with ferocity. Appalled for a moment, Abner 
 stood still, then he made a wrench to get away. 
 It was in vain. Drawing the boy*s arms to- 
 gether, the Indian grasped them with his left 
 hand by the wrists, and when the r'ght hand 
 was thus released he thrust it into the folds of 
 his belt of wampum. Abner's eyes followed 
 the movement, and when tfc hand was with- 
 drawn grasping a short, thick knife, which he 
 recognized as the scalping-knife he had heard 
 spoken of, a paroxysm of terror smote him, and 
 he gave a piercing shriek. With a diabolical 
 grin, as if he enjoyed the boy's terror, the In- 
 dian passed the knife before Abner's eyes and 
 tried its edge on his soft chubby cheek, then 
 flourished it before plunging into his scalp. 
 As he made the motion,. a billet of wood came 
 hurtling past, and striking the Indian on the 
 
 Ml'-- ■! 
 
 felt 4 
 
ABNER S DEVICE 
 
 149 
 
 head, he fell, draggio^ Abner with him. He 
 was lifted up by the Captain, whom Abner had 
 seen asleep a minute before, and as he passed 
 his hand over him to make sure he was unhurt, 
 he poured forth a torrent of angry words, in 
 his own language, at the Indian, who gave no 
 sign that the knockdown blow he had received 
 had hurt him. As the captain led Abner into 
 the circle of Indians, who had been awakened 
 by his shriek, he told him he had been scolding 
 his assailant for attempting to scalp him, and 
 said in apology that he was a heathen Indian 
 of the far west, a Blackfoot who had strayed 
 to the Ottawa, and joined a band of the Iro- 
 quois. *I do not allow my men to be cruel ; 
 my orders be to watch the frontier to prevent 
 invasion by your soldier, and not to hurt any- 
 body.' Then he asked Abner who he was and 
 why he had come nigh their camp, and was an- 
 swered frankly. 
 
 *Ah, my leetle man,' said the captain, who 
 spoke with a French accent, 'if you tell me true 
 you get away ; but I'm afraid you carry letter, 
 ^despatch— eh !' Taking the basket from his 
 back, the captain lifted out its contents, among 
 which were half-a-dozen apples, then a luxury 
 in the new settlement^ wfeere ihp few frifit 
 
 I* 
 
150 
 
 GLXAKIB TALES 
 
 trees planted liftd not begun to bear. An In- 
 dian snatched up one and took a bite« laugh- 
 ingly saying, 'Yankee apple better nor Yankee 
 bullet' The other contents were of as innocent 
 a description : a few little luxuries that might 
 tempt an invalid, a small bag of flour, and a 
 bottle of liniment The captain, satisfied there 
 was no letter in ^he basket, carefully replaced 
 its contents ^id then examined Abner's cloth- 
 ing, making him evrn take off his shoes. While 
 thus engaged an Indian slouched up beside the 
 captain and, throwing down his musket, began 
 to speak to him, and Abner listened to the jg^t- 
 turid sounds with awe. 
 
 'Dis man,' said the captain, 'tell me he see 
 you leave clearance and follow you. He say, 
 when you come to Canada side you act as 'fraid, 
 hide behind bush, and walk ver-ray fooney. 
 Why yon no want to be seen V 
 
 Abner blushed at this description of his en- 
 acting the role of Indian scout and perceived 
 how his conduct could be misconstrued. He 
 remembered, also, hb mother's repeated injunc- 
 tion that truth is better under any circum- 
 stances, and, with a shamed smile on his fs 
 he told what he was doing. The capta. k 
 grinned as he listened ftnd patting. v4bner on 
 
ABNEB'S DEVICE 
 
 161 
 
 the back said : 'I know ; boy once myself and 
 now fadder of four ; you play one leetle game 
 of Indian spy, not tinking real Indian watch 
 you. You one good, honest-faced boy. Pity 
 you Yankee.' 
 
 The Indian who had tracked him, smiled as 
 the captain spoke, showing he understood Eng- 
 lish, and, like all his race, enjoyed banter. 'You 
 smell smoke, eh V he said, 'hold up nose and go 
 on. Then you hear partridge drum (here he 
 imitated the sound) me partridge and signal to 
 Joe ; Joe steal up behind, catch arms, pull out 
 knife, you — squeal/ and here, as if overcome 
 by the ludicrousness of the scene, the Indian 
 grinned from ear to ear without emitting a 
 single sound of laughter, and poked Abner in 
 the side. 
 
 'You make big mistake tink you come to 
 Indian camp without we know,* remarked the 
 captain, 'when we sleep, sentinel all round like 
 fox.' Changing the subject, the captain tried 
 to get from Abner what he knew of the move- 
 ments and whereabouts of the American army, 
 particularly of the number still in camp at 
 Four Corners, which Abner admitted he had 
 visited the day before. It was without avail. 
 The boy realised that the information be would 
 
m 
 
 152 
 
 GLEANER TALES 
 
 -v/v: 
 
 give might be used against his countrj^men, 
 and be acswered evasively. 'Ah, well/ ex 
 claimed the captain, 'it no matter; we've our 
 spies in your camp so weli as in de bush.* 
 
 The Indians were now busily preparing 
 breakfast, and Abner watched them with curi- 
 ous eyes as they placed potatoes and pieces of 
 pork to cook upon tie hot embers, while a 
 copper-kettle with tea was slung on a crooked 
 stick. Their duties required them to be on the 
 patrol along the frontier during the night, 
 which accounted for their sleeping so late.' 
 
 'Veil,' said the captain, *what you tink of 
 dese Indian ? Yankee able to catch 'em ? Eh ? 
 You tell, when you get home, what great fel- 
 low Indians be. Now you may go, and give 
 Mrs Bland de compliment of Cap taA<» Versailles 
 and say dat he will do her de hon«* of taking 
 supper with her.' 
 
 Thus permitted to resume his journey, Abner 
 struck into the bush, and in half an hour had 
 reached the house of the Blands. He was 
 hailed with an uproarious welcome from every 
 member of the large household, for there was 
 the delight not only of resuming long-suspended 
 friendly intercourse, but the proof in his ap- 
 pearance that the warfare waged between the 
 
^ ABNEK*S DEVICE 153 
 
 two governments bad not lessened the goodwill 
 of their neighbors. Unpacking the basket, it 
 was found to contain a little of everything 
 they had been so long deprived of, from being 
 shut out from the American stores. On the 
 cork being drawn from the bottle of liniment, 
 granny declared that the very smell had done 
 her rheumatics good. As the contents of the 
 basket lay spread on the table, a sudden 
 thought seemed to strike Mrs Bland, which she 
 communicated in a whisper to her husband. 
 There was a quiet consultation, and then she 
 addressed Abner. 
 
 *We have something strange to tell you, and 
 mum's the word. Night before last, when we 
 were asleep, a knock came to the door and then 
 it was pushed open. Father rose, stirred the 
 fire, and got a light, when wo saw it was an 
 American soldier. He was drenched to the 
 skin, for it was pouring rain, and, oh, what a 
 pale, thin ghost he looked ! He crept up to 
 the fire and sank in a heap beside it, muttering, 
 'Thank God.' I saw he was periahing, and got 
 some hot drink for him, and after a while he 
 told his story. He had been with Hampton's 
 army in the battle, where he had received a 
 fle^h wound ia the side, and when Purdy*s 
 
IH 
 
 GLSANEE TALES 
 
 brigade fell back he was unable to keep up 
 with them and got separated from his company 
 in the dark, and lost his way. Next morning 
 he tried to find the trail of the army, but failed, 
 and then, guided by the sun, struck south, 
 knowing he would in time reach the States. 
 Too weak to carry them, he threw away his 
 musket and ammunition, and crawled, rather 
 than walked, on his way. When the last 
 biscuit in his haversack was eaten, he had to 
 trust to beech and butter nuts, though he was 
 not hungry, for his wound fevered him. Often 
 he lay down, thinking he would never rise 
 again, but he was young and strong, and when 
 he revived a little he pushed on, until, to his 
 great joy, he struck our clearing. He thought 
 he was in the States, and when we told him 
 our house was on the Canada side he was 
 dreadful afraid we would give him up, and he 
 would be sent to Montreal as a prisoner. We 
 soon eased him on that score ; our big trouble 
 was to hide him from the Indian guard until 
 we could get him sent across the lines/ 
 
 'Yes, mother/ interrupted one of her sons, 
 'they came to our house the next day, and are 
 close by yet.' Abner shivered. 
 
 'Well/ r^umed Mrs $land, '( made the poor 
 
ABNEE'd DEVICE 
 
 155 
 
 Yank take off his wet clothes and lie down in 
 our warm bed. I dressed his wound for the 
 first time, and it was raw and nastyi I can tell 
 you, and then he fell asleep like a baby, poor 
 fellow. I cleaned and set his clothes to dry, 
 and as I sat mending them next morning father 
 and I consulted. To keep him in the house 
 was to give him up to the Indians, and he was 
 too weak to travel farther. Where to hide hin 
 until he was able to leave bothered us, when, 
 all of a sudden, &ther thought of the big plat- 
 form that stands in the bush, three acres back, 
 which the Indians raised last year for still 
 hunting. It was late in the day when he 
 awoke, and he found himself weak as water 
 but the fever had left him. We told him what 
 we intended, and, after be had eaten some- 
 thing, father and the boys carried him to the 
 platform, rolled him in a blanket and covered 
 him with elm bark and cedar brush. We have 
 taken him victuals after dark, and last night, 
 seeing it was wet, we fetched him over and 
 gave him a night's rest in bed. He eats little, 
 for his stomach is turned against our common 
 food, and he'll be glad of what your mother has 
 sent. Now, Ab, can't you think of some plan to 
 get this poor Yankee soldie): safe across the lines?' 
 
 II 
 
 i 
 
156 
 
 GLEAlTER TALES 
 
 
 He could not think of any, for the woods 
 were full of the Indians, but he would like to 
 visit the wounded soldier. Preparing as tasty 
 a repast as she could out of the victuals sent by 
 Mrs Smith, Abner and Mrs Bland started for 
 his place of concealment. As Is their custom, 
 the Indians had raised the platform in a 
 thicket, which commanded a runway, and was 
 therefore well-concealed, and, what was of equal 
 consequence at that season, sheltered from the 
 wind. On coming beneath it, Mrs Bland spoke, 
 when there was a movement above, and a face, 
 so ashy pale and wasted that Abner felt a 
 creeping feeling pass cer him, peered from 
 beyond the edge. 'Here's a boy from Yankee- 
 town and a dinner cooked from the provisions 
 he has brought.' 
 
 'He's welcome,' faintly whispered the soldier, 
 'I wish I could go back with him.' 
 
 Taking the basket in one hand, Abner climbed 
 up to the platform with the agility of a squirrel, 
 and helped the soldier to raise himself and 
 arrange the food. When he saw the wheaten 
 bread, he said it put him in mind of home, and 
 he fell-to and made the best meal he had par- 
 taken of since the fatal day on the Chateaugay. 
 His strength returned with the grateful food 
 
abner's device 
 
 157 
 
 and be asked Abner many questions, what 
 Hampton had done after the battle, where be 
 was now, were many killed, did the British 
 follow him up, and were there many Indians in 
 the woods. When he heard of Abner's en- 
 countering the Indians that morning, he shud- 
 dered, and Abner could not help thinking of 
 what his fate would be did one of them ferret 
 out his retreat, a reflection that increased bis 
 desire to save him. Leaving the soldier in a 
 cheerful and hopeful mood, he slipped back to 
 the Elands, puzzling his head to devise some 
 plan of rescuing his countryman. 
 
 After dinner, which consisted of corn boiled 
 in milk, and potatoes with fried venison, the 
 Bland boys proposed to go partridge-shooting, 
 and Abner agreed, as he was in no hurry to 
 return home. So off they went. In beating 
 the woods, a coon was started, and it supplied 
 the idea Abner had been seeking for. Before 
 they returned home he had worked it out and 
 determined to submit it to Mr Bland. On ap- 
 proaching the door they heard peals of laughter, 
 when one of the boys remarked, *The captain 
 has come ; he's a jolly one with the girls,' and 
 on entering, they found that personage enter- 
 taining the fnmily in his liveliest style. Abner 
 
158 
 
 OLEAKEB TALIS 
 
 bit hU lip and saw he most bide his time. 
 Sapper is an early meal in the backwoods, and 
 after enjoying it to the fall, and diverting and 
 flattering each of the household, Captain Ver- 
 sailles, with many apolo^es for duty requiring 
 him to leave such delightful compaoy, left to 
 return to his Indians. No sooner had he gone, 
 than Abner asked abruptly, * These moonlight 
 nights don't you go coon-hunting 1' 
 
 'Don't we, Ab,' answered one of the boys, 
 'think you'd say so if you saw the skins nailed 
 on the barn-door.' 
 
 'Well, then, I've a plan to get the soldier 
 away with me,' which he proceeded to lay 
 before them. Briefly it was, that the boys 
 should go with their guns a mile or so east and 
 close to the boundary-line, when they would 
 begin firing and shouting. The Indians would 
 think it was an attack from Fort Hickory, and 
 hurry to meet the invaders, leaving the western 
 part of the frontier unguarded, when Abner 
 would slip across with the soldier. 
 
 'It's feasible,' said Mr Bland, 'the trouble is 
 the poor fellow isn't able to walk a rod, let 
 alone &ve miles.' 
 
 'He'll die from cold if left out longer,' re 
 marked his wife ; 'we must run some risk. He 
 
ABNEBS DEVICE 
 
 159 
 
 might be able to keep on the back of the old 
 white mare.' 
 
 *That'8 bo/ answered her husband, 'and we 
 may try Ab's plan/ 
 
 As no time was to be lost, it being essential 
 to make the diversion before the Indians were 
 detailed by Captain Yersailles to their posts for 
 the night, the boys caught up their guns and 
 left, while Abner and Mr Bland slipped over to 
 the hiding-place of the soldier, told him what 
 was intended, and helped him down from his 
 perch. The prospect of speedy escape gave 
 him unwonted strength, and leaning on his 
 friends he managed to walk to the house, where 
 Mrs Bland, after dressing his wound, insisted 
 on washing his face and tidying him up. 'For 
 sure,' she said, 'you're going home to your 
 friends, and you mustn't give Canada a bad 
 name/ 
 
 'That I never will/ murmured the grateful 
 soldier, 'Qod has anointed the hearts of both 
 peoples with the same oil of kindness, and its 
 only the politicians and big men on both sides 
 that make trouble between us.' 
 
 The evening was calm and mild for the 
 season, and Mr Bland sat listening by the open 
 door. Presently, there burst from a remote 
 
■■■■ 
 
 160 
 
 GLEANER TALES. 
 
 corner of the woods, a sharp volley, followed 
 by such shouts and cries as would lead the 
 listener to fancy a fierce fight was in progress. 
 'There they are !' exclaimed Mr Bland, while 
 the shots and uproar continued to increase, Met 
 'em keep that up for ten minutes, and there 
 won't be an Indian within earshot who won't 
 be running to the spot/ 
 
 The noise did continue that long and longer 
 too, while, with skilful imitation, it subsided 
 and increased, and passed from one part of the 
 woods to another, the cheers of soldiers ming- 
 ling with Indian yells, giving the impression of 
 a running fight between a detachment of the 
 American garrison and the Indian guard. When 
 Mr Bland considered all the Indians had left 
 for the neighborhood of the supposed fight, the 
 old mare was brought to the door, which the 
 soldier was helped to mount, and Abner, grasp- 
 ing the bit, led the way. By this time the 
 moon was high enough to be pouring down its 
 rays through the tree-tops, and though its light 
 was useful in showing him how to avoid ob- 
 stacles and to go much faster than they other- 
 wise could have done, Abner would have 
 dispensed with it for fear of its revealing their 
 presence to the Indians. His fear was ground- 
 
abner's device 
 
 161 
 
 m 
 
 less. His device was a complete success. Not 
 an Indian was met, the woods were traversed 
 in safety, and Abner exulted in the thought 
 how he bad tricked the Indians, and almost 
 laughed right out when be pictured to himself 
 their disgust, on reaching the scene of the sup« 
 posed fight, to find it to be only a coon-buni). 
 If they bad trapped him in the morning, be 
 had outwitted them in the evening. When 
 the light of his father's bouse was discerned, 
 Abner relieved bis feelings by a great shout of, 
 exultation, that drew bis parents to the door. 
 
 'Well, Abner, you see the Indians did not 
 catch you V 
 
 'Didn't they mother ! I feel the clutch of 
 one of 'em at my scalp yet. Won't you help 
 the stranger down, father ? He is a soldier and 
 wounded.* 
 
 'Wounded ! Poor critter, I must get the bed 
 ready,* and Mrs Smith darted indoors. 
 
 Stiff and sore from the exertion and cold, the 
 poor soldier was like to fall when they helped 
 him off the mare, and, gently, father and son 
 carried him to the bed. 
 
 Toor man, ain't be tuckered out I' exclaimed 
 Mrs Smithy as she approached him when bis 
 
 18 
 

 m-'- i 
 
 
 162 
 
 GLEANEB TALES 
 
 head had been laid on the pillow. Shading the 
 candle she glanced at him, started, looked again, 
 and crying out, 'Blessed if it ben't my own 
 brother Bill from Yarmont!" she fell on his 
 neck in a paroxysm of hysterical sobs. And 
 60 it turned out to be. He had been among 
 those last drafted to reinforce Hampton, and 
 bad been unconscious that his sister lived so 
 near the camp at Four Corners. Abner was 
 the hero of the night when the soldier told 
 how he had been the means of saving him, 
 'No,' said the lad modestly, *it was mother's 
 sending me against my will to the Blands that 
 saved you.' 
 
 'That's so, Abner, and you never forget it, 
 that blood is thicker than water, and in doing 
 a kind deed to those you considered an enemy 
 we were serving ourselves.' 
 
 It 
 
 lii" ' 
 
 THE END. 
 
 h';' 
 
NOTE. 
 
 Tn description of the Indian frontier-guard in the stoiy 
 of 'Abner'a Device,' is strictly historical. On the outbreak 
 of the war, the impossibility of patrolling with regular 
 troops a frontier covered with dense bush was recognized, 
 and bands of Indians were enrolled to discharge that duty. 
 They consisted almost wholly of Ircquois from St BegiF, 
 Caughnawaga, and Oka. Each band consisted of 40, com- 
 manded by a captain, chosen on account of his familiarity 
 with them, and therefore generally a voyageur or hunter. 
 Besides Versailles, Lamothe and Perrigo were in command 
 of bands on the frontier between Lake Champlain and the 
 Salmon River. They discharged their duties of watching 
 the movements of the enemy with extraordinary vigilance 
 and endurance; and though constantly on the move and 
 fearlessly penetrating into the States to watch the hostile 
 camps, did not lose a single man. Their presence was a 
 source of terror to the Ameiican sentinels, whom they 
 watched and pounced upon like tigers, and of security to 
 the few settlers who then lived on the British side of the 
 lines, who never slept so soundly as when an Indian camp 
 was near their clearances. 
 
fmrnmim^f 
 
 THB CANADIAN GLEANER, 
 
 Established Over Twenty Years, 
 
 Is read in evjry part of the District of 
 Beauhamois. 
 
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 the United States without extra charge. 
 
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