Title: The Narrative of Gordon Sellar Who Emigrated to Canada in 1825
Author: Sellar, Gordon
Language: English
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The Narrative

of

+Gordon Sellar+

who

Emigrated to Canada in 1825



HUNTINGDON, QUE.

THE GLEANER BOOK ROOM

1915


_Copyright, Canada, by Robert Sellar, 1915._



+GORDON SELLAR+



CHAPTER I.


While my mother was a servant in Glasgow she married a soldier. I have
only a faint remembrance of my father, of a tall man in a red coat
coming to see us in the afternoons and tossing me up and down to the
ceiling. I was in my fourth year when his regiment was hurried to
Belgium to fight Bonaparte. One day there rose a shouting in the
streets, it was news of a great victory, the battle of Waterloo. At
night mother took me to Argyle street to see the illuminations, and I
never forgot the blaze of lights and the great crowd, cheering. At the
Cross there were men with bottles, drinking the health of Wellington.
When my mother caught me up to get past the drunken men she was
shivering. Long afterwards, when I was able to put two and two together
I understood it was her fear of what had happened father. She went often
to the barracks to ask if any word had come, but except that the
regiment was in the thick of the fight they could tell nothing. It might
be three weeks after the battle that a sergeant came to our room. Mother
was out working He left a paper on the table and went away. When mother
came home late, she snatched the paper up, gave a cry that I hear yet,
and taking me in her arms fell on the bed and sobbed as if her heart
would break. I must have asked her what had happened, for I recall her
squeezing me tighter to her bosom and saying My fatherless boy. Long
after, I met a comrade of my father, who told me he acted bravely all
day and was cut down by a dragoon when the French charged on the
infantry squares at the close of the battle. My mother got nothing from
the government, except the pay that was coming to him, which she told me
was 17s 6d.

Mother kept on working, mostly out of door jobs, washing or
house-cleaning, a neighbor being asked to look after me. When I got old
enough, she would tell me, while I was in bed, where she was going, and
in the evening I would go and meet her. Sometimes, not often, she got
sewing to do at home and these were bright days. We talked all the time
and she taught me much; not simply to read and write and cast little
sums, but about everything she knew. My reading book was the gospel of
John, which she said was fullest of comfort, and it was then my faith in
Christ took root. There could not be a more contented or cheerful
mother, and her common expression was that when we did our duty
everything was for the best. She had a sweet voice, and when she sang
one of Burns' songs neighbors opened their doors to hear her. I was
nearly ten when a bad time came. Mills closed, the streets were full of
idle workmen, and provisions got dear. Mother got little to do, and I
know she often went hungry that I might be fed. She might have got her
share of the relief fund, but would not think of it. She told me time
and again, to be independent. That hard winter made all the families in
our close draw nearer to one another, and every hour there was some deed
of helpfulness. The best friends of the poor are the poor. We were
struggling on, hopeful and unmurmuring, when the word passed from
landing to landing one morning that the boy who was sick in the first
flat had been visited by a doctor, who said he had typhus. Mother took
her turn in sitting up with him at night until he got the change and it
was for the better. It might be a week after, I went to meet her on her
way home from the place where she had been at work, and saw how slow she
walked and the trouble she had in getting up the stair to our room. She
gave me my supper and lay down on the bed to rest, for she said she was
tired. Next morning she complained of headache and did not rise.
Neighbors came in to see her now and then. I stayed by her, she had
never been thus before. When it became dark she seemed to forget herself
and talked strange. The woman next door gave her a few drops of laudanum
in sugar and she fell asleep. When she woke next day she did not know me
and was raving. Word was taken to the hospital and a doctor came. He
said it was a bad case, and she must be taken to the hospital at once,
and he would send the van. It came, the two men with it lifted her from
her bed and placed her on a stretcher. A crowd had gathered on the
street to see her brought out and placed in the van. I thought I was to
go with her, and tried to get on the seat. The helper pushed me away,
but the driver bent over and gave me a penny. The horse started and I
never saw my mother again. I ran after the van, but it got to the
hospital long before I was in sight of it. I went to the door and said I
wanted my mother; the porter roughly told me to go away. I waited in
front of the building until it got dark, and I wondered behind which of
the rows of lighted windows mother lay. When cold to the bone I went
back to our room. A neighbor heard me cry and would have me come to her
kitchen-fire and she gave me some gruel. Sitting I fell asleep.

I was told I must not go into our room, it was dangerous, so I went to
the hospital and waited and watched the people go in and out. One
gentleman with a kind face came out and I made bold to speak to him.
When I said mother had fever he told me nobody could see her, and that
she would be taken good care of. I thought my heart would burst. I could
not bear to stay on the Gallowgate, and so weary days passed in my
keeping watch on the hospital. On Sunday coming, the neighbor who was so
kind to me, said she would go with me, for they allowed visitors to see
patients on Sunday afternoon. We started, I trotting cheery in the
thought I was about to see my mother. The clerk at the counter asked the
name and disease. He said no visitors were admitted to the fever-ward.
Could he find out how she was? He spoke into a tin tube and coming back
opened a big book. 'She died yesterday,' he said quite unconcerned. I
could not help it, I gave a cry and fainted. As we trudged home in the
rain, the woman told me they had buried her.

I had now no home. The landlord fumigated our room with sulphur, took
the little furniture for the rent, and got another tenant. Everybody was
kind but I knew they had not enough for themselves, and the resolve took
shape, that I would go to the parish where my mother was born. Often,
when we took a walk on the Green, Sunday evenings, she would point to
the hills beyond which her father's home once was, and I came to think
of that country-place as one where there was plenty to eat and coals to
keep warm. How to get there I tried to plan. I must walk, of course, but
how was I to live on the road? I was running messages for the grocer
with whom mother had dealt, and he gave me a halfpenny when he had an
errand. These I gave to the woman where I slept and who was so kind to
me despite her poverty. I was on London street after dark when a
gentleman came along. He was half-tipsy. Catching hold of my collar he
said if I would lead him to his house he would give me sixpence. He gave
a number in Montieth row. I took his hand, which steadied him a little,
and we got along slowly, and were lucky in not meeting a policeman. When
we got to the number he gave me, I rang the bell. A man came to the
door, who exclaimed, At it again. The gentleman stumbled in and I was
going away when he recollected me. Fumbling in his pocket, he picked
out a coin and put it into my hand, and the door closed. At the first
lamp I looked at it; sure enough, he had given me a sixpence. I was
overjoyed, and I said to myself, I can leave for Ayrshire now. I wakened
early next morning and began my preparations. I got speldrins and
scones, tying them in the silk handkerchief mother wore round her neck
on Sundays. That and her bible was all I had of her belongings. Where
the rest had gone, a number of pawn tickets told. I was in a hurry to be
off and telling the woman I was going to try the country I bade her
goodbye. She said, God help you, poor boy, and kissed my cheek. The
bells at the Cross were chiming out, The blue bells of Scotland, when I
turned the corner at the Saltmarket.

It was a beautiful spring-day and when I had cleared the city and got
right into the country everything was so fresh and pleasant that I could
have shouted with joy. The hedges were bursting into bloom, the grass
was dotted with daisies, and from the fields of braird rose larks and
other birds, which sang as if they rejoiced with me. I wondered why
people should stay in the city when the country was so much better. It
had one draw-back, the country-road was not as smooth as the pavement.
There was a cut in my left foot from stepping on a bit of glass, and the
dust and grit of the road got into it and gave me some pain. I must have
walked for three hours when I came to a burn that crossed the road. I
sat on a stone and bathed my foot, and with it dangling in the water I
ate a speldrin and a scone. On starting to walk, I found my foot worse,
and had to go slow and take many a rest. When the gloaming came I was on
the look out for a place to pass the night. On finding a cosey spot
behind a clump of bushes, I took my supper, lay down, and fell asleep,
for I was dead weary. The whistling of a blackbird near my head woke me
and I saw the sun was getting high. My foot was much worse, but I had to
go on. Taking from my bundle of provisions as sparingly as my hunger
would let me, I started. It was another fine day and had my hurt foot
been well I thought I would reach my mother's parish before long. I
could not walk, I just limped. Carts passed me, but would not give me a
lift. My bare feet and head and ragged clothes made them suspicious, and
as for the gentlemen in gigs they did not look at me. When I came to
spring or burn I put my foot in it, for it was hot and swollen now. At
noon I finished the food in my bundle and went on. I had not gone far
when I had to stop, and was holding my sore foot in a spring when a
tinker came along. He asked what was wrong. Drawing a long pin out of
his coat collar he felt along the cut, and then squeezed it hard. I see
it now, he remarked, and fetching from his pouch a pair of pincers he
pulled from the cut a sliver of glass. Wrapping the cloth round it he
tied it with a bit of black tape, and told me if I kept dirt out it
would heal in a day or two. Asking me where I was going, we had some
talk. He told me the parish of Dundonald was a long way off and he did
not know anybody in it by the name of Askew. I was on the right road and
could find out when I got there. He lit his pipe and left me. I walked
with more ease, and the farther I went the hungrier I grew. Coming to a
house by the side of the road I went to the open door and asked for a
cake. I have nothing for beggars, cried a woman by the fire. I am no
beggar, I answered, I will pay you, and held out a halfpenny. She stared
at me. Take these stoups and fill them at the well. The hill was steep
and the stoups heavy, but I managed to carry them back one at a time and
placed them on the bench. She handed me a farl of oatcake and I went
away. It was the sweetest bite I ever got. It was not nearly dark when I
climbed a dyke to get into a sheltered nook and fell asleep. Something
soft and warm licking my face woke me. It was a dog and it was broad
day. What are you doing here, laddie? said the dog's master who was a
young fellow, perhaps six or seven years older than myself. His staff
and the collie showed me he was a shepherd. I told him who I was and
where I was trying to go. Collie again smelt at me and wagged his tail
as if telling his master I was all right. I went with the lad who said
his name was Archie. He led to where his sheep were and we sat down in
the sunshine, for it was another warm day. We talked and we were not ten
minutes together when we liked each other. He unwrapped from a cloth
some bannocks and something like dried meat, which he said was braxie.

It was his noon-bite, but he told me to eat it for he said, we go back
to the shelter to-day, and by we he meant collie. He had been lonesome
and was glad of company and we chattered on by the hour. At noon,
leaving collie in charge of the sheep, we went to the hut where he
stayed and had something to eat. He said his father was shepherd to a
big farmer, who had sent him with two score of shearling ewes to get
highland pasture. We talked about everything we knew and tried to make
each other laugh. He told me about Wallace, and we gripped hands on
saying we would fight for Scotland like him, and I told him about
Glasgow, where he had not been. A boy came with a little basket and a
message. The message was from his father, that he was to bring the sheep
back early on Monday, and the basket was from his mother with food and a
clean shirt for the Sabbath. We slept on a sheepskin and wakened to hear
the patter of rain. After seeing his sheep and counting them, Archie
said we must keep the Sabbath, and when we had settled in a dry corner
of the hillside he heard me my questions. I could not go further than
Who is the Redeemer of God's elect? but he could go to the end. Then I
repeated the three paraphrases my mother had taught me, but Archie had
nearly all of them and several psalms. A shepherd would be tired if he
did not learn by heart, he said; some knit but I like reading best. Then
he took my mother's bible and read about David and Goliath. That over he
started to sing. Oh we had a fine time, and when a shower came Archie
spread his plaid like a tent over the bushes and we sat under it. He
told me what he meant to do when he was a man. He was going to Canada
and get a farm, and send for the whole family. As we snuggled in for the
night, he told me he would not forget me and he was glad collie had
nosed me out in the bushes. If I found in the morning he was gone, I was
to take what he left me to eat. Sure enough I slept in; he was gone with
the sheep. I said a prayer for him and took the road.

It was shower and shine all day. I footed on my way as fast as I could,
for the cut was still tender. Towards night I neared a little village
and saw an old man sitting on the doorstep reading. I asked him if I was
on the right road to Dundonald. He replied I was, but it was too far
away to reach before dark, and he put a few questions to me. Asking me
to sit beside him we had a talk. Did you ever see that book? holding out
the one he was reading. 'It is A Cloud of Witnesses, and gives the story
of the days of persecution. I wish every man in Scotland knew what it
contains, for there would be more of the right stuff among us. I was
just reading, for the hundredth time, I suppose, the trial of Marion
Harvie, and how he who was afterwards James King of England consented to
send her, a poor frail woman, to the gallows'. From the Covenanters he
passed to politics. He was a weaver and did not like the government,
telling me, seeing where I came from, I must grow up to be a Glasgow
radical. Seeing I was homeless, he said he would fend me for the night,
and, going into the house, he brought out a coggie of milk and a barley
scone. When I had finished, he took me to the byre and left me in a
stall of straw, telling me to leave early for his wife hated gangrel
bodies and would not, when she came in, rest content, if she knew there
was anybody in the stable. When daylight came it was raining. I started
without anybody seeing me from the house. I was soon wet to the skin,
but I trudged on, saying to myself every now and then You're a
Scotchman, never say die. There were few on the road, and when I met a
postman and asked how far I was from Dundonald, his curt reply was, You
are in it. I was dripping wet and oh so perished with cold and hunger
that I made up my mind to stop at the first house I came to. As it
happened, it was a farm-house a little bit from the road. I went to the
kitchen-door where there was a hen trying to keep her chicks out of the
rain. There were voices of children at play and of a woman as if
crooning a babe to sleep. I stood a while before I ventured to knock.
There was no answer and after waiting a few minutes I knocked again. A
boy of my own age opened the door. An old woman came towards me and
asked what I wanted. I am cold, I said, and, please, might I warm
myself? She was deaf and did not catch what I said. 'Whose bairn are
you?' she asked me. Mary Askew's, I replied, I noticed the younger woman
who had the child in her lap fixed her gaze on me. Where are you from?
grannie asked. From Glasgow and I am so cold. Laying down the child in
the cradle, the younger woman came to me and sitting on a stool took my
hands. 'Where did your mother belong?' she asked in a kind voice. She
came from the parish of Dundonald. 'And where is your father?' He is
dead. 'And is your mother in Glasgow?' She died in the hospital, and the
thought of that sad time set the tears running down my cheeks. 'You poor
motherless bairn!' she exclaimed, 'can it be you are the child of my old
school companion? Have you any brothers or sisters?' No, I have nobody
in the world. 'Did your mother leave you nothing?' In my simplicity, not
understanding she meant worldly gear, I untied my bundle, uncovered the
cloth I had wrapped round it to keep it dry, and handed her the bible.
She looked at the writing. 'I remember when she got it, as a prize for
repeating the 119th psalm without missing a word.' Putting her arms
round my neck she kissed me and holding me to the light she said 'You
have your mother's eyes and mouth.'

The boy and girl took me to the fire, and, when grannie was got to
understand who I was, she bustled round to heat over some of the broth
left from dinner and while it was warming the little girl forced her
piece into my mouth. The other boy came to me full of curiosity. Feeling
my legs he whispered, You're starvit. By-and-by a cart drove into the
yard. It was the master with his hired man. When he was told who I was,
he called me to him and patted me on the head. That night I slept with
Allan, the name of the older boy. His brother's name was Bob, and the
girl's Alice. The baby had not been christened. The name of the master
of the house was Andrew Anderson.



CHAPTER II.


Hating to be a burden on the family I was eager to work. Too weak for
farm duties, I helped about the house and came, in course of time, to
earn a good word from grannie. Tho of the same age, there was a great
difference between Allan and myself. He could lift weights I could not
move, did not get tired as I did, and as the stronger took care of me We
were all happy and getting-on well when trouble came from an unlooked
for quarter. The master got notice from the factor that, on his lease
running out the following year, the rent would be raised. He did not
look for this. During his lease he had made many improvements at his own
cost and thought they would more than count against any rise in the
value of farm lands. He remonstrated with the factor, who said he could
do nothing, his lordship wanted more revenue from his estate and there
was a man ready to take the farm at the advanced rent. He was sorry, but
the master had to pay the rent asked or leave the place. If I go, what
will be allowed me for the improvements I have made? Not a shilling; he
had gone on making them without the landlord's consent. You saw me
making them and encouraged me, said the master, and I made them in the
belief I would be given another tack to get some of the profit out of
them. The factor replied, Tut, tut, that's not the law of Scotland. The
master felt very sore at the injustice done him. On his lordship's
arrival from London, accompanied by a party of his English friends, for
the shooting, the master resolved to see him. On the morning he left to
interview him we wished him good luck, confident the landlord would not
uphold the factor, and we wearied for his return. The look on his face
as he came into the kitchen showed he had failed. He told us all that
passed. On getting to the grand house and telling the flunkey he had
come to see his master, the flunkey regarded him with disdain, and
replied his lordship was engaged and would not see him. Persisting in
refusing to leave the door and telling that he was a tenant, the flunkey
left and returned with a young gentleman, who asked what was his
business, saying he was his lordship's secretary. On being told, the
young man shook his head, saying his lordship left all such matters to
his factor, and it would do no good to see him. Just then a finely
dressed lady swept into the hall. Pausing, she cried, 'Tompkins, what
does that common-looking man want here? Tell him to go to the servants'
entry.' 'He wants to see his lordship,' was the reply. 'The idea!'
exclaimed the lady as she crossed the floor and disappeared by the
opposite door. The master could hear the sounds of laughter and jingle
of glasses. 'My, good man,' said the secretary, 'you had better go: his
lordship will not see you today.' 'When will he be at liberty to see
me?' asked the master, 'I will come when it suits his pleasure. I must
have his word of mouth that what the factor says is his decision.' The
secretary looked perplexed, and after putting a few questions, among
them that he had paid his rent and wanted no favor beyond renewal of his
lease on the old terms, he told my father to wait a minute and left. It
might be half an hour or more when a flunkey beckoned the master to
follow him. Throwing open a door he entered what he took to be the
library, for it had shelves of books. His lordship was alone, seated by
the fireplace with a newspaper on his lap. 'Now, say what you have to
say in fewest words,' said the nobleman. Standing before him the master
told how he had taken the farm 19 years ago, had observed every
condition of the lease, and had gone beyond them in keeping the farm in
good heart, for he had improved it in many ways, especially during the
past few years when he had ditched and limed and levelled a boggy piece
of land, and changed it from growing rushes into the best pasture-field
on the farm. 'Gin the farm is worth more, it is me who has made it and I
crave your lordship to either give me another tack at the same rent or
pay me what my betterments are worth.' His Lordship turned and touched a
bell. On the flunkey appearing, he said to him, 'Show this fellow to
the door,' and took up his newspaper. As the master finished, he said to
us, 'Dear as every acre of the farm is to me, I will leave it and go
where the man who works the land may own it and where there are no lords
and dukes, nor baronets. I am a man and never again will I ask as a
favor what is my due of any fellow-mortal with a title.' We went to bed
that night sorrowful and fearing what was before us.

When he took anything in hand the master went through with it. Before
the week was out he had given up the farm, arranged for an auction sale,
and for going to Canada. My heart was filled with misgivings as to what
would become of me. I knew crops had been short for two years, and,
though he was even with the world, the master had not a pound to spare,
and depended on the auction-sale for the money to pay for outfit and
passage to Canada. I had no right to expect he would pay for me, and all
the more that he would have no use for a lad such as I was in his new
home. It was not so much of what might happen to myself after they were
gone that I thought about, as of parting with the family, for I loved
every one of them. I knew they were considering what to do with me, and
one day, on the master getting me alone, he seemed relieved on telling
me the new tenant of the farm was going to keep me on for my meat. I
thanked him, for it was better than I looked for. These were busy days
getting ready. Alice noticed that, in all the making of clothes, there
were none for me, and I overheard her ask her mother, who answered in a
whisper, that they had not money enough to take me along with them.
Alice was more considerate than ever with me. To their going grannie
proved an obstacle. She would not leave Scotland, she declared, she
would be buried in it, she would go to no strange country, let alone a
cold one like Canada, nor cross the sea. Her favorite of the family was
Robbie, on whom she doted. 'You will not leave him?' asked the mistress.
'Ou, he'll gang with me to Mirren's,' the name of her daughter in
Glasgow. 'Oh, no; Robbie goes with us to Canada.' It was a struggle with
the dear old soul, and in the end she decided she would brave the
Atlantic rather than part with her boy.

The last day came. The chests, and plenishing for the home they looked
forward to in Canada, had gone the day before and been stowed in the
ship at Troon, and the carts stood at the door to receive the family and
their hand-bags. The children and all were seated and the master turned
to me before taking his place. He shook my hand, and tried to say
something, but could not, for his voice failed. Pressing half a crown in
my little fist he moved to get beside the driver, when Robbie cheeped
out astonished, 'Is Gordie no to go wi' us?' 'Whist, my boy; we will
send for him by-and-by.' At this Robbie set up a howl, and his brothers
and sisters joined in his weeping. The master was sorely moved and
whispered with his wife. 'His passage-money will make me break my last
big note,' I heard him say to her. 'Trust in the Lord,' she answered,
'I canna thole the thought of leaving the mitherless bairn to that hard
man, John Stoddart; he'll work the poor weak fellow to death.' Without
another word, the master hoisted me on top of the baggage, the carts
moved on, and Robbie looked up into my face with a smile. We were driven
alongside the ship as she lay at the quay. She was a roomy brig, and was
busy taking on cargo. Our part of the hold was shown to us, and the
mistress at once began to unpack the bedding, and to make the best of
everything. 'Is it not an awful black hole to put Christians into?'
asked a woman who was taking her first survey. 'Well, no, I do not think
so; it is far better than I expected.' She had a gracious way, the
mistress, of looking at everything in the best light.

In the afternoon a man came on board to see the captain about taking
passage, and they agreed. He had no baggage, and as the ship only
supplied part of the provisions he had to go to buy what he needed for
the voyage. He asked the master to let me go with him to help to carry
back his bedding and parcels. We went from shop to shop until he had got
everything on his list; last of all he visited a draper and bought
cloth. On getting back to the ship he was tapped on the shoulder by a
seedy looking fellow who was waiting for him, and who said, 'You are my
prisoner.' The man started and his face grew white. I thought it strange
he did not ask what he was a prisoner for. 'Will you go quietly or will
I put these on?' asked the man, showing a pair of handcuffs in his coat
pocket. 'I will give you no trouble,' was the answer, 'only allow the
boy to stow these parcels and bags in my berth.'

'I think the boy had better come with you; I will wait till he is
ready.' I wondered what he could want with me. He led us up the street
to a large building where he placed us in charge of a man even more
greasy and with a worse look than himself. It was quite a while before
he returned and led us into a large room. There was a long table, at its
head sat two well-dressed gentlemen, and at each side men with papers
before them. 'May it please your lordship and Bailie McSweem, the
prisoner being present we will now proceed.' He went on to explain that
the prisoner was a member of one of those political associations that
were plotting to subvert the government of the country, even thinking
they could organize a revolution and drive his majesty from the throne.
He need not dwell on the danger State and Church were in from the
plottings of those desperate men, and the need of all upholders of the
Crown and Constitution suppressing them with a firm hand.

The gentleman who was addressed as his lordship nodded in approval, and
said, 'There is no need, Mr Sheriff, of referring to those unhappy
matters as we are fully cognizant of them. What about the prisoner?'

'He is a member of the Greenock union, proceedings were about to be
taken for his arrest on a charge of sedition, when somehow he got wind
of what was about to take place and, knowing he was guilty, attempted
to flee the country. I can produce, if you say so, witnesses to prove
that he skulked into Troon by back streets and secured passage to Canada
on the Heatherbell, which sails in a few hours. I have one witness now
present.'

His lordship remarked the Sheriff deserved credit for his vigilance and
the promptitude with which he acted. 'I suppose,' he added, 'we have
nothing more to do than order his being sent to Greenock for examination
and trial?'

'That is all we need do.' answered the Sheriff. Just then a loud voice
was heard in the hall demanding admission, a sound as if the door-keeper
was pulled aside, and a sharp-featured man came in. 'What business have
you to enter here?' demanded the Sheriff.

'I will soon show you. What are you doing with that man?' pointing to
the prisoner.

'Leave at once, or I will order you to be ejected.'

The man, who was quite composed, said to the prisoner, 'Mr Kerr, do you
authorize me to act as your attorney?'

'Yes,' he answered. 'Very well, then, I am here by right. Now, Mr
Sheriff, hand me over the papers in the case.'

The Sheriff, who was red in the face, 'I shall not, you have no right
here; you're not a lawyer.'

Addressing the magistrates the man said he was a merchant, a burgess of
the city of Glasgow, had been chosen by the accused as his attorney and
was acting within his rights in demanding to see the papers. The
magistrates consulted in a whisper and his lordship remarked there could
be no objection. The Sheriff, however, continued to clutch them. 'You
ask him,' was the order of the stranger to Kerr, 'he dare not refuse
you.' Reluctantly the Sheriff handed them to the stranger, who quickly
glanced over them. 'Is this all?' he demanded. 'Yes, that is all,'
snapped the Sheriff.

'Where is the warrant for Kerr's arrest?'

'None of your business where it is.'

Speaking to the bench, the stranger said there was neither information
nor warrant among the papers he held in his hand. The only authority
they had for holding Kerr was a letter from a clerk at Greenock, stating
one Robert Kerr, accused of sedition, had fled before the papers could
be made out for his arrest, and that, if he was found trying to take
ship at Troon, to hold him. 'I warn you,' said the stranger, shaking his
fist, 'that you have made yourselves liable to heavy penalties in
arresting Robert Kerr on the strength of a mere letter. There is no
deposition whatever, no warrant, and yet a peaceable man, going about in
his lawful business, has been seized by your thief-takers and made
prisoner. If you do not release him at once I go forthwith to Edinburgh
and you will know what will happen you by Monday.' He went on with much
more I do not recall, but it was all threats and warnings of what would
befall all concerned if Kerr was not released. The Sheriff at last got
in a word. 'The charge is sedition and ordinary processes of procedure
do not apply.'

'You might have said that 30 years ago when you infernal Tories sent
Thomas Muir of Huntershill to his death, and William Skirving and others
to banishment for seeking reform in representation and upholding the
right of petition, but you are not able now to make the law to suit your
ends. You are holding this man without shadow of law or justice, and I
demand his being set at liberty.'

'Quite an authority in law!' sneered the Sheriff.

'Yes, I have been three times before the court of session and won each
time. I knew your father, who was a decent shoemaker in Cupar, and when
he sent you to learn to be a lawyer he little thought he was making a
tool for those he despised. Pick a man from the plow, clap on his back a
black coat, send him to college, and in five years he is a Conservative,
and puckers his mouth at anything so vulgar as a Reformer, booing and
clawing to the gentry and nobility. Dod, set a beggar on horseback and
he will ride over his own father, and your father was no lick-the-ladle
like you, but a Liberal who stood up for his rights.' The bitterness and
force with which the stranger spoke cowed his hearers.

'These insults are too much,' stammered the Bailie.

The stranger at once turned upon him. 'O, this is you McSweem, to whom I
have sold many a box of soap and tea when you wore an apron and kept a
grocer's shop. Set you up and push you forward, indeed. You have got a
bit of an estate with your wife's money and call yourself a laird! The
grand folk having taken you under their wing, you forget that you once
sat, cheek-by-jowl, with Joseph Gerrald, and now you sit in judgment on
a better man than a dozen like you.'

'Mr Sheriff,' shouted his lordship. 'Remove this man to the cells.'

'I dare you to put a finger on me,' and he grasped a chair ready to
knock down the officer who advanced to obey the order. 'I am within my
lawful rights. Dod, wee Henderson would ask nothing better than to
prosecute you before the lords of session were you to keep me in jail
even for an hour. Release this innocent man Kerr, and let us go.'

'You are a vulgar bully,' exclaimed his lordship haughtily.

The stranger dropped his bitter tone, and asked smoothly, 'May I ask
your lordship a question? Will you condescend to say how many of your
lordship's relatives are in government offices, and is it true your
wife's mother draws a pension, all of them living out of taxes paid by
the commonalty whom you despise?'

His lordship affected not to hear him, and beckoning the Sheriff to draw
near, he conferred with the magistrates in whispers. I overheard Bailie
McSweem say, 'I know him, he's a perfect devil to fight; better have
nothing to do with him,' and the Sheriff's remark, 'He has got a legal
catch to work on.' When the Sheriff went back to his seat, h is lordship
said curtly, 'The accused is discharged,' and he and McSweem hurriedly
left. The stranger gripped Kerr by the shoulder and pushed him before
him until we reached the street. 'Now, I must leave you, for I must see
what my customers are out of.'

'Tell me your name?' asked Kerr, 'that I may know who has done me such
service.'

'Never mind; you are under no obligation to me. A wee bird told me you
were in trouble and I am glad to have been in time to serve you.'

'You do not know all the service you have done; you have saved more than
myself from jail, and an innocent wife and children from poverty. Do let
me know your name that I may remember it as long as I live.'

'Daniel M'farlane, and my advice is to quit Scotland right off, for
these devils are mad angry at your giving them the slip. They will get
the papers they need from Greenock and have you in jail if you are here
tomorrow.' A grip of the hand, and the stranger was gone. The whole
scene was such a surprise, so novel to me, that every part of it
fastened on my memory.

On reaching the brig we found the sailors stowing away casks of water.
Kerr and myself had been given the same berth, and Allan and Robbie had
the next one. Saying he was dead-tired, for he had been on his feet
since leaving Greenock, Kerr turned in though the sun had not set. An
hour or so after, a number of men came to the wharf to see him. I found
him asleep. They asked if I was the lad the officer took along with him
to be a witness. Gathering in a quiet corner they had me repeat all
that took place. They said they were Liberals and glad to hear the black
nebs had won.

The noise overhead of washing the deck awoke me, and I knew by the
motion of the ship we were sailing. On getting up I saw Troon several
miles behind and Ailsa Craig drawing near. Allan and myself, with Robbie
between us, were snuggled on the lee side of the longboat when Kerr
appeared. He was interested on hearing of the men who came to visit him
and said it was hard to be hounded out of Scotland, which he did not
wish to leave, for saying constitutional reforms were called for. 'I am
no worse used,' he added, 'than the man whom that county we are looking
at starved when he was among them and built monuments to him when he was
dead.' The town of Ayr was in sight and he named several of the points
Burns had named in his songs. 'Think, my laddies, of a man like Burns
being told by the officials over him to keep his Liberal views to
himself, that it was not for him to think but to be silent and obedient.
And he had to swallow their order to prevent his losing the petty office
which stood between his children and starvation.'

The breeze that had taken the brig so far down the firth soon died away,
and we rocked gently south of Ailsa Craig. In the hold folk were busy
getting things in some sort of order, while on deck the sailors were
putting everything in shipshape. This breathing spell was fortunate, for
at dark the wind came in squalls, and on rounding the Mull of Cantyre
the ocean swells sent most of the passengers to their berths seasick. I
escaped and was able to help the family and Mr Kerr, who almost
collapsed, and was not himself for a week. His first sign of recovery
was his craving for a red herring. The mistress was early up and
bustling round to find she had to face an entire change in the methods
of housekeeping to which she had been used. There was a little house
between the two masts named the galley, and here the cooking was done.
The cook was an old man, gruff and crusty, who had spent most of his
life in a Dundee whaler. In the Arctic region his good nature had got
frozen and was not yet thawed out. He would allow nobody near and got
angry when suggestions were tendered. He made good porridge and tasty
soup, anything else he spoiled. As these alone were cooked in bulk and
measured out, the passengers took to the galley the food they wished to
be cooked. That each family get back what they gave in, the food was
placed in bags of netted twine and then slipped into the coppers of
boiling water. The mistress was a famous hand at roley-poley, and for
the first Sunday after sea-sickness had gone, she prepared a big one as
a treat. It looked right and smelled good, but the first spoonful showed
it had a wonderful flavor. In the boiler the net beside it held a nuckle
of smoked ham. The laughter and jokes made us forget the taste of the
ham and not a scrap of the roley-poley was left. Our greatest lack was
milk for the children, and we all resented being scrimped in
drinking-water, though before the voyage ended we became reconciled to
that, for the water grew bad.



CHAPTER III.


There were 43 passengers. There were two families besides our own, and
outside of them were a number of young men, plowmen and shepherds,
intent on getting land and sending for their people to join them the
next spring. There was an exception in a middle-aged man, brisk and
spruce, who held himself to be above his fellow-passengers, and said
nothing about where he came from or who he was. The only information he
gave was, that he had been in the mercantile line, and that he was to be
addressed as Mr Snellgrove. He waved his right hand in conversation and
spoke in a lofty way, which to Allan and myself was funny. When he had
got his sealegs and his appetite, he began lecturing the passengers as
to what they ought to do, enlarging on organizing a committee, of which
he was to be head. I think I see him, strutting up and down the deck by
the side of the captain with whom it gratified him to walk. The only
other passenger besides him who was not connected with farming was Mr
Kerr, to whom I became much attached. He was well-informed on subjects
I had heard of but knew nothing, and we talked by the hour. His
companionship was to me an intellectual awakening. Among his purchases
in Troon was material for a suit of clothes, which he made during the
voyage, for he was a tailor. He had left Greenock in such haste that he
had not time to go to his lodging for any of his belongings. Mr
Snellgrove affected to despise him both for his trade and his political
principles, and never missed an opportunity to sneer at him; Mr Kerr
never replied.

Day followed day without relieving the monotony. At times we would get a
glimpse of the topsails of a ship gliding along the horizon, but usually
the ocean seemed to have no other tenant than our own stout brig. One
afternoon the cook rushed out of his den with the shout 'There she
spouts!' and looking where he pointed we saw a whale cleaving the waves.
We were in our third week out when we ran into a fog. The wind fell and
the brig rolled in the swell, causing her tackle to rattle and sails to
flap as if they would split. The second day the fog was thicker, and the
ocean smooth as glass. For fear of collision with another ship, the
lookout man kept blowing a horn which had a most dismal sound. The
captain and mate tried to get the sun at noon but could not find the
faintest trace. After dinner a gull flew past, which made the cook say
he smelt danger. A few were below but the most of us were on deck when a
slight bump was felt and then another. The rattling in the rigging
stopped and the ocean swell broke on our stern. The mate started to the
companion scuttle and shouted to the captain, that the ship was
grounded. In a minute he appeared, his face white and twisted with
anguish. His anxiety was not alone for the passengers and crew but for
himself. He was owner of the brig and if she was wrecked he was ruined.
The mate was casting the lead and when he shouted 'We are on a sandbank'
there was a sigh of relief deepened by the carpenter's report that the
ship was not making water. Grannie, who had managed to creep up the
ladder from the deserted hold, remarked 'We are sooner in Canada than I
expectit.' Her exclamation brought the reaction from our dread and we
burst into laughter. 'It is not Quebec,' shouted Allan in her ear, 'we
are aground.' 'A weel,' she replied, 'I will cling to the rock o' my
salvation.'

The order was given to get ready the boats. There were two, the yawl
that had been hauled on top of the house on deck, and lay keel up. Oars
were mislaid and on hanging her to the davits it was noticed in time
there was no plug in the hole for drainage. The other boat, which was
our reliance, was the long boat abaft the foremast. Its cover was torn
off and we saw it was filled with all sorts of odds and ends that had
been stowed there to be out of the way. These were pitched aside by
willing hands and the tackle had been fastened to hoist her overboard,
when there was a shout from the fog of Ahoy. We saw a man in yellow oil
skins rowing towards us. Jumping on board, he asked 'What is keeping
you here?' 'You tell us,' replied the captain, who was overjoyed to see
him. The fisherman said we had been drifted by the current towards
Newfoundland, and had the ship not grounded she would in a few hours,
have been dashed against the cliffs that line the shore and every soul
been lost. It was the most wonderful escape he had ever known.

'How are we to get off?' asked the captain. 'You will float off when the
tide makes.' 'And then what will we do if there is no wind?' 'You will
go on the cliffs, but there will be a capful of wind at ebb tide.' The
captain had sent for his chart, and the fisherman pointed out where the
brig stood. He said if a breeze did not come in time for her to make a
slant southwards we were to take to the boats and row to the cove which
he covered with his thumb. 'If you can get your anchor over the side, it
may help you,' he added.

He and his comrades were out catching bait. He heard our horn and then
saw our lump of a brig loom through the fog. We were sorry to see him
leave and row off to his schooner, of which he had the bearings. To
hoist the anchor from where it had been stowed when we lost sight of
Tory island and bitt it to the chain was tedious work but it was begun.
We waited hopefully for the tide and, sure enough, it lifted us gently.
On feeling we were afloat once more we gave a cheer. Soon after a faint
breath of air was felt, the ship got steerage way, and we slowly hauled
off the dreaded coast. The breeze cleared the fog and in the rays of
the setting sun we saw the cliffs against which we might have been
shivered and the fishing-boats to which our friend belonged.

On gathering in the hold our talk was of our escape. The master said it
was proof to him God was with us; we thought we were lost when we
grounded, yet that sandbank was what had saved us. Just then Mr
Snellgrove came down the ladder. 'I have just bade the captain good
night,' he said, 'and I am authorized by him to inform you all danger is
past. Had an executive committee been appointed the moment the vessel
struck matters would have gone on with less confusion. We are safe,
however, notwithstanding we have a Jonah on board.'

Mr Kerr who was, like all of us, excited by the accident, asked, 'You
mean me?'

Yes, you are a fugitive from the justice which would have punished you
as you deserve for sedition. The world has come to a strange pass when
tailors would dictate to the Powers ordained by God how the realm is to
be governed. For one I am loyal to my King and his advisers in all they
ordain. England's glorious bulwark is her throne and the nobility who
surround it.'

The little man stood on the lower rungs of the ladder, in front of the
lantern that swung from a beam, so I saw him clearly. To our surprise Mr
Kerr came forward and spoke slowly and quietly. 'I do not wish you, my
fellow passengers, to look upon me any longer as a fugitive from
justice, and will explain how it comes that circumstances give color to
the charge. I have a brother, older than myself and father of a large
family. One day in April, a clerk in the sheriff's office, who is a
cousin, came to me at night to tell me that a spy who had attended a
meeting of the Liberal club, had laid an information that my brother had
spoken disrespectfully of the King, George the Fourth, and his advisers.
On the strength of this, a warrant was prepared for his arrest on the
charge of sedition. The spy had made a mistake in the first name and had
given mine instead of my brother's. My cousin said, if I would disappear
the prosecution would be baffled. To save my brother, for a prosecution
would ruin him, I fled at once, going to Troon, where I knew a ship was
ready to sail for Canada. On the officers going to my lodging to arrest
me, they found I had gone. How they came to know I had gone to Troon I
cannot say. Probably they sent word to all ports where ships were ready
to sail. As you know, I was arrested on board this boat and discharged,
because the magistrate had no authority to hold me. It was to save my
brother that I am here. What he said at the club I do not know, for I
was not there.'

'A plausible story,' said Mr Snellgrove, 'but you told a lie when you
answered to a false name before the Troon magistrate.'

'I told no lie,' answered Mr Kerr in a calm voice, 'for I was not asked
to plead, but I knew I could have saved myself and have sent my brother
to jail by correcting the mistake of the spy.'

Mr Snellgrove was about to say more when a murmur of disapproval caused
him to slink to his berth. My master came forward and taking Mr Kerr by
the hand said, 'I respected you before; I honor you now,' and all, men
and women, pressed to shake his hand.

After breakfast next morning there was much talk over our escape from
death, and the more light thrown on it in discussion the stronger grew
the feeling that we had been saved by the interposition of Providence.
Had the brig not struck the sandbank and done so at low tide, not a soul
would have reached land, and relatives would never have known what
became of the Heatherbell unless part of her wreckage was picked up.
There ought to be public acknowledgment of our rescue and expression of
our united thanks. The captain agreed it would be right, so, that
afternoon, all hands assembled, except Mr Snellgrove, who sat at the bow
pretending to read a book. The impression made on me, by the sight of
the sailors joining in the psalms and the children gathering round their
mothers' skirts in wonder, has survived these fifty-five years. The
master at the request of the captain, took charge. He read the story of
Paul's shipwreck and then prayed with a fervor that made me cry. To the
surprise of all, he asked Mr Kerr to improve the occasion. He began by
saying it was not for mortals to judge the ways of God, to complain of
visitations or to condemn acts that are inscrutable, but it was the
bounden duty of man, when good did befall him, to ascribe the praise to
God. They had a marvellous escape from a cruel death, and without
inquiring into the how or wherefore it was our part to acknowledge the
hand that saved us. After a good deal more in that strain of thought he
changed to the purpose of our voyage. We were crossing the ocean to
escape conditions in the Old Land that had become a burden to us,
hoping, in the New Land before us, there would be brighter surroundings.
To preserve that New Land from the mistakes and evils that blast the Old
was a duty. To try and reproduce another Scotland such as they had left
would be to reproduce what we were leaving it for. What we ought to try
is to create a new Great Britain in Canada, retaining all that is good
and dropping all that is undesirable. I want, he said, to see a land
where every man is free to secure a portion of God's footstool and to
enjoy the fruits he reaps from it, without an aristocracy taking toll of
what they did not earn, and a government levying taxes on labor to
support soldiers or to subsidize privileged classes of any kind whatever
their pretences.

How much more the speaker would have said I do not know, for Mr
Snellgrove, who had come forward on his beginning to speak, here shouted
'Treason!' The master to prevent a scene, for a young shepherd moved to
catch hold of the offender, gave out the 100th psalm, and we closed in
peace.

The hold was so dark that Mr Kerr could not see to sew, so on fine days
he worked on deck. Sitting beside him he taught me how to hold a needle,
for he said every man should be able to make small repairs. He advised
me to seize every opportunity to learn. When a boy he could have learned
to speak Gaelic and regretted he had let the chance go by. Should he get
work in Montreal, he would study French. A man's intellect grows by
learning whatever accident throws in his way, and the man who, from
foolish conceit, refuses to take advantage of his opportunities remains
a dolt. Read and observe, he said, and you will be able to say and do
when your fellows are helpless. He got cuttings of canvas from the
bosun, shaped them into a blouse, and got me to sew them together. The
other boys laughed at me, and called me the wee tailor, but the blouse
did me good service for many a day. While so much with him, I asked Mr
Kerr about his political trouble. Though a Liberal he belonged to no
club and was against using other than constitutional means to bring
about reforms, and these reforms must come. It could not continue that
Great Britain was to be ruled by a parliament composed of aristocrats
and their creatures, for the great mass of the people had no voice in
it. No Methodist, Baptist, or other dissenter was allowed a seat in
parliament, and there were noblemen who controlled the election of more
members than the city of Glasgow. Manchester and Birmingham have no
members. Half of Scotland is owned by a dozen aristocrats. Whenever you
hear men shout disloyalty and claim to be the only true-blue supporters
of their country, you may be sure they are selfishly trying to hold some
privilege to which they have no right. He told of many of his
acquaintances who had been prosecuted for petitioning for the mending
of political grievances, of a few who had been ruined by imprisonment
and law costs, of the men who had been banished to Australia, and the
three men who had been hanged. Hundreds had fled, like himself, to
escape prosecution.

After our misadventure off Newfoundland our voyage was prosperous.
Coming on deck one sunny morning we saw land, which was Cape Ray, and
before the sun set we were in the Gulf of St Lawrence. We were not alone
now, for every few hours we sighted ships. They were part of the Spring
fleet to Quebec, now on their voyage home with cargoes of timber. One
passed us so close that the captains spoke, and when the homeward
captain shouted he was for the Clyde there were passengers who wished
they were on board her, and the tear came to their eyes when they
thought of Scotland and of those who were there. The Bird Rocks were
quite a sight to us, but the Ayrshire folk held they were not to be
compared with Ailsa Craig. On the Gulf narrowing until we could see land
on both sides, a white yacht bore down to us and sent aboard a pilot. He
was a short man, with grizzled hair. Being the first Frenchman we had
seen, we gathered round him with curiosity and listened to his broken
English with pleasure, for the tone was kindly and he was so polite,
even to us boys. He brought no very late news, for he had left Quebec
ten days before, when the weather was so hot that laborers loading ships
dropped in the coves from sunstroke. Each tack that brought the brig
higher up the river changed the scenery, a range of forest-clad trees on
the north bank, and on the south bank a row of whitewashed cottages, so
closely set that they looked as if they lined a street, broken at
intervals by the tin-covered roof and steeple of a church. There were
discussions among our farmers as to the narrowness of the fields and
what kind of crops were on them, for they looked patchy and were of
different colors, which the pilot was generally called on to decide, and
it was funny to watch his difficulty in understanding their broad
Scottish speech. Reaching where the ebb tide was stronger than the
breeze, anchor was dropped for the first time. Before the tide turned,
the pilot cried to dip up water, and there was a shout of delight when
we tasted it and found the buckets were filled with fresh water. Wasn't
there a big washing that day! As much splashing as the porpoises made
who gambolled at a distance. Cool, northerly breezes helped us on our
way, and exactly five weeks from the day we left Troon we came to anchor
off Cape Diamond, which disappointed us, for we looked for a higher rock
and a bigger fort. On the ship mooring, the pilot sat down, and in a
frenzy of delight at his success in bringing her up safely, flourished
his arms and chuckled in his own language. Darting from a wharf came a
fine rowboat with four oarsmen, and an official in blue with gilt
buttons holding the helm. We were so engrossed in watching it, that we
did not notice Mr Snellgrove had joined us, decked out grandly in
finest clothes. Before the captain could say a word to the
customs-officer, Mr Snellgrove asked him whether the governor-general
was at his residence, and on being told he was, said he would accompany
his majesty's official on shore, and, so saying stepped on the boat and
seated himself in silent dignity in the stern, turning his back to us
who were looking on. The officer's visit was brief; the boat pushed off
and we had our last look of Mr Snellgrove, transformed from a
steerage-passenger into a dandy expecting to mix with the grandees of
Quebec. Next day, in talking with the captain, he told the master
Snellgrove had kept a draper's shop at Maybole, failed for a big sum,
and had come to Canada expecting to get, with the letters of
introduction he had from a number of noblemen, a government situation.

The intention being to weigh anchor on the tide flowing, leave to go on
shore was refused to the passengers. The captain, having to report at
the customs, he, however, took Mr Kerr with him, to get materials for
repairs he was making to the captain's clothes. Mr Kerr caught hold of
me, and I had a hurried look at what appeared to me to be a foreign
town, leaving out the street that ran along the harbor, which seemed to
be lined with taverns frequented by soldiers and sailors. Mr Kerr bought
a fancy basket from a squaw, as a present to the mistress, who had been
kind to him. While we were gone, the ship was visited by boats offering
bread for sale, and willing to take in exchange split peas or oatmeal.
Black lumps were held up as maple sugar. They were so dirty that
curiosity was soon satisfied. The boat that brought us a pilot, went
back with Snellgrove's trunk. On the tide beginning to flow the anchor
was lifted and we were borne upwards, passing the crowd ashore, among
whom were many soldiers. A gun was fired from the citadel and the flag
fluttered down, for it was sunset when we got into the stream.
Everything being new and strange nothing escaped us, and every passenger
was on deck watching. The number of ships surprised all. There were rows
of them for two or three miles, in the midst of fields of the logs which
were to form their cargoes. As I sat beside Mr Kerr in the twilight, he
spoke of the sights I could not help seeing in the street along the
waterfront of Quebec, or hearing the language used. There was evil in
the world of which a man should try to keep ignorant. It was not
knowledge of the world to look into, much less to dabble in its filth. A
lad who kept his thoughts clean was repaid by health and happiness,
while entertaining evil imaginings led to a weak intellect and
discontent with oneself. I had noticed before, when anybody began a
dirty story that Mr Kerr rose and left. Another time he told me, his
constant effort was to think of only pleasant things, to try and relieve
what was disagreeable by looking from a sunny standpoint and to meet
disappointments by searching if there was not some good in them.

On the tide beginning to turn, the anchor was dropped. The tide is felt
as high as Three Rivers and it is possible for a ship to go that far by
floating up with it. The second night after leaving Quebec we were
startled by a loud knocking on the companion of the forecastle and an
imperative shout to tumble up. An east wind had come and every minute
was valuable. The anchor was lifted and sails set, and before the sun
appeared we were sweeping past Three Rivers. Interest was kept up by the
villages and fields we passed, and it was the decision of the farmers
that it was poor land badly worked. More novel to us, was the succession
of rafts we met, each covering acres, with masts and houses on them, and
men along their sides keeping them in midstream by means of long oars.
As we passed up lake St Peter the wind freshened, the clouds came lower
and the rain poured. The captain and pilot were in great glee, for they
told us if the wind held we would pass up the St Mary's current and
anchor off Montreal before dark. Strong as the wind was and with every
sail set that would draw, it was found we could not stem the current
without help, so the ship was brought close to the bank, a rope passed
ashore, and a string of oxen appeared, who helped to draw her into
calmer water. The night was dark and rainy but we kept on deck and
watched the lights of Montreal.

They had not been at sea a week when the three farmers had agreed they
would keep together on reaching Canada and take up land side by side.
They were also of one mind in making Toronto (it was not so named then)
their starting-point in search of new homes. The captain's advice was,
that one of them should take the stage at Montreal; by so doing he would
get to Toronto at least a week ahead of the rest of the party, in which
time he could hunt up land. This would save delay and the expense of
staying in lodging while looking for a place to settle. It was arranged
the master should go. At daylight he got ashore and was in time for the
stage that left for Prescott. We were all up early that morning, eager
to see Montreal. The clouds had gone and the mountain looked fresh and
green. The town consisted of a few rows of buildings along the river.
There being no wharf or dock the ship was hauled as close to the shore
as her draft allowed, and a gangway of long planks on trestles set up.
Nearly every passenger walked over it to say they had set foot on
Canada. A number of the men went into the town to see it. In two hours
one of them was brought back drunk and without a copper in his pockets.
Mr Kerr told me he would stay in Montreal if he got a place. He returned
in the afternoon to tell us he had got work and to take away his few
belongings. He bade all good-bye. On coming to me, I went with him, for
he had asked the mistress that I go with him to see the town. The
narrowness of the streets and the foreign look of the houses with their
high-pitched roofs impressed me less than the muddy roadways, for I had
never thought there could be a town with unpaved streets and no
sidewalks. Mr Kerr, on his way to his boarding-house, showed me the shop
where he was to begin work next morning. While we were in his bedroom a
gong sounded for supper. It was all new to me, the people, their talk,
and the food. I wondered to see meat and potatoes for supper, hot buns,
and apple-pies. After supper we had a walk, and in going along one of
the streets there was a man before us carrying a baby. Raising her head
above his shoulder the child looked at us and said something to him.
Without reflecting, I wondered how a child could have learned French so
early in life. On turning back to the ship Mr Kerr took me into a shop
and bought me a cap, and I had need of one. On coming in front of the
ship, he shook my hands as if he did not want to let me go, and made me
promise I would write him and tell where we had settled. For himself, he
would stay in Montreal at least long enough to get his belongings by
ship from Greenock.

The captain having given notice that everybody must leave the ship next
day, there was early bustling in finishing packing and arranging for the
next stage in our journey, which was to be by a Durham boat to Prescott.
Carts were on hand to haul our luggage to the canal, where lay the boat
that had been hired for our party. A carter hoisted a chest on his
little vehicle and hurriedly drove off. Instead of taking the direction
of the other carts, he went straight up the dump that led into the town.
I shouted to him to stop. He laid his whip on the horse and drove
faster. It flashed on me he was a thief, and I ran after him. I could
never have caught up to him had it not been market day and the street
was crowded with people and carts. I jumped up beside him and pulled at
his collar to make him stop. He tried to push me on to the road, but I
clung to him, when he lashed me with the whip. I shouted for help, but
all being French they did not know what I said, but they saw something
was wrong and with many exclamations the crowd stood staring at us. Just
then a little, stout man, in a black gown, elbowed his way through the
crowd, and asked me in English what was the matter. I told him the
carter had stolen the chest. He spoke to the carter in French. 'The man
denies it,' said the priest, for such I now guessed he was. I hurriedly
narrated what had happened, and for proof pointed to the name painted on
the chest. Speaking with severity to the carter, the fellow turned his
horse towards the river and the priest told me he would take the chest
back to where he got it. 'But he may not do so,' I exclaimed. The priest
gave me a sharp look, as if surprised that I should be ignorant of his
power. 'He dare not disobey me.' I thanked the priest from the bottom of
my heart, and in a few minutes the carter had dumped the chest on the
spot where he had taken it and drove away. On telling the mate what had
happened, he said it was common for emigrants, both at Quebec and
Montreal, to be robbed by fellows who regarded them as fair game.

We followed the cart that took the last of our luggage, forming quite a
procession, and each one of us who was able carried something. I had a
bag in one hand and an iron pot in the other. Grannie held a firm grip
of Robbie, who she feared might be lost in Montreal, for the puir laddie
hadna a word of French. On coming to the canal we were disappointed with
both it and the boat. The canal was a narrow ditch and as to the boat,
it was short and narrow and had no deck, except a few feet at either
end. 'We cannot live in that cockle-shell!' exclaimed Mrs Auld. Her
owner replied 'She was one fine boat, new, built by Yankee.' He was the
only one of the crew who understood English, and was quick in his
motions. He soon had all we brought with us stowed, and when a corner
was found for the last chest, it was a surmise where the crew and
passengers could find standing-room. The decked portions were allotted
the women and children, the men and boys roosted on top of boxes and
bales as they could. When all was ready, the conductor took the helm,
the crew lined up on the bank with a tow-line over their shoulders, and
off we started. The weather was fine and the country we passed
beautiful. At the first locks we came to, the mistress stepped to a
farmhouse beside the canal, and came back with the pail she had taken
with her full of milk. It was the first the children had since we left
Scotland. It was late in the day when the boat got to the end of the
canal; the conductor, who told us to call him Treffle, said we would
wait and have supper before going on the lake. Driftwood was gathered
and fires made, pots and pans being set on stones. The crew fried fat
pork, which, with bread, was their supper. We made porridge, for we had
still a good supply of oatmeal, and of ship-biscuit. The sails were
hoisted and we got away before it was quite dark. The wind was westerly,
so we had to tack. Had it not been that the boat had a centreboard we
would have made small progress. The centreboard was a novelty to us, and
we could see how close it helped the little vessel to sail in the eye of
the wind. The size of the lake surprised everybody and all the more when
Treffle told us it was the St Lawrence. 'My, it is a big river and it is
in a big country!' exclaimed Mrs Auld. Everybody had to sleep as they
best could; some slept sitting, more by leaning against one another,
nobody had room to stretch himself. We were tired and glad to rest in
any way. Mrs Auld said we were like herring in a barrel, packed heads
and thraws. In waking at daylight we heard the sound of water dashing
and roaring, and looking upwards saw the river tumbling downwards in
great waves, which were, for all the world, like those of the Atlantic
in a gale, except that they stayed in the same place. Treffle said these
waves were due to the rushing water striking big rocks in the bed of the
river, over which they kept pouring, and gave the name Cascades to the
rapid. The boat was tied up, as the crew were to have breakfast before
their hard work in making a passage past the rapids. I went with the
mistress to a house that was not far away for milk. A smiling woman met
us at the door and asked us inside; the house was clean and neat. We
tried to make her understand what we wanted but failed until I put the
pail between my knees and imitated milking a cow. She laughed heartily
and by signs made us know she did not have a cow. Stepping to the
fireplace she dipped a tin into a big pot that simmered in a corner and
handed it to the mistress. It was soup. Holding out some money, she made
signs to fill the pail. Having done so she picked out five coppers from
the money offered, and bade good-by with many a smile and nod. The soup
proved to be fine, just one drawback, its flavor of garlic. 'They use no
split peas to make their pea-soup here,' remarked Mrs Auld, 'and it is
an improvement.' 'No, no,' interjected Treffle, 'soup be good because
all time kept boiling; pot by the fire Sunday to Sunday.' The chill in
the morning air made the hot soup grateful.



CHAPTER IV.


Our curiosity as to how our boat was to get up the rapid was soon
satisfied. Along both sides of the boat ran a stout plank, to which were
securely fastened a row of cleats, about two feet apart. The crew
gathered at the bow, each man holding a long pole with an iron point. On
the order being given by the conductor, who held the helm, two men
stepped out and took their place on the planks, one on each side, and
dropped the iron points of their poles into the river, until they struck
bottom. Then, pressing the end they held against their shoulders, pushed
with all their might. As the boat yielded to their thrust, they stepped
backward down their planks, making room for another man in front, until
there were four on each side of the boat, pushing with their utmost
strength. As the men who first got on the planks reached the end, they
jumped aside and made their way to the bow to begin anew the same
operation, of dropping their poles into the water, tucking the head of
them into the hollow of their shoulders, and, leaning forward, push as
they did before, receding step by step, the cleats giving the needed
purchase to their feet. The current was swifter than any millstream, yet
the boat was pushed slowly up until we reached the entrance to a canal,
smaller than that at Lachine, for it was only 2-1/2 feet deep and so
narrow that the crew jumped it when they wished to cross. It served the
purpose, however, of enabling the boat to pass the worst part of the
rapid, where it foamed in great billows. Quitting the canal the swift
current was again met and the setting poles again put into use. Our lads
were eager to try their hands, but a few minutes was enough, their
shoulders being too soft for the work. Those of the crew were calloused
almost like bone, but even to them it was hard work, for the sweat
rolled down their faces, as they struggled along the planks bent double.
On reaching the next rapid, Treffle asked all who could to get out and
walk along the bank, as the boat was drawing too much water. Robbie
wanted to go with us, but grannie clung to him. 'Should the boatie cowp,
who would save him gin I was na at hand?' she asked. To help the crew,
we pulled at a towline until she got to another small canal. As we went
on, we had the excitement of watching boats pass us on their way to
Montreal, shooting the rapids. They were heavily loaded, mostly with
bags of flour, yet ran down the foaming waters safely. To us boys, was
more exciting the passage of rafts, for they splashed the water into
spray. Having overcome that rapid, we all got on board, and the crew had
an easier time in pushing along until we got in sight of a church
perched above a cluster of cottages. The mistress asked Treffle how they
made the passage before the small canals were cut where the rapids were
most dangerous. He explained, that at the first rapid all the freight
was unloaded and conveyed in carts to the landing-place on lake St
Francis, while the empty boats were poled and towed close alongside the
edge of the bank, avoiding the boiling water. In those days the boats
were lighter and sailed in companies, and their crews united to take
them up one by one. The village, the Cedars, was to be the resting-place
of the boatmen until next day, and scattering among the houses, where a
few of them had their families, they left the boat to the passengers.
Treffle led the way to houses where provisions could be bought and at
prices so low that the women wondered. Saying nothing so good to make
men strong, he bought for the mistress a big piece of boiled pork,
which, sliced thin, we enjoyed either with bread or our ship-biscuit. We
watched the baking of bread. It was fired in queer little white
plastered ovens set in front of each house, looking somewhat like
beehives placed on top of strong tables. The ovens are filled with wood,
which is set on fire, and when the oven is hot enough the wood is raked
out, the loaves shoved in, and the door shut. We youngsters gathered
round one on seeing the woman was about to open it. When she drew out
the first loaf, with a fine crust and an appetizing smell, we could not
help giving a cheer, it was so wonderful to us. We went back to the
boat with a lot of food, to which was added fish, bought from a man as
he landed from his canoe, which we fried. That evening we had the best
meal since we left home, and at night had plenty of room to sleep, for
the air being hot a number of us slept beneath the trees. We safely got
past the fourth and last of the rapids, floating out of a little canal
into a large lake. The wind was still in the west, so we had to keep
tacking, and it was afternoon when we passed Cornwall and steered for
the south side of the St Lawrence. Allan was pointing out to Grannie
what was British and what was American; she remarked, on comparing the
houses on the two banks, 'That gin Canadians wad build houses of wood,
they ocht to hae the decency to paint them.' On nearing the
landing-place at the foot of the rapids, Allan pointed to a group of
people and told her they were Yankees. She shook her head, she did not
believe him, they were too like our ain folk to be Yankees. The Soo is
the longest rapid of the St Lawrence measuring nine miles, but is not
nearly so wild as those we had passed, having fewer waves and intervals
of smooth water. There was no canal to help in getting to the head of
it, and it was beyond the strength of our crew to push the boat up with
setting-poles. There was a towpath along the U.S. bank on which stood
three yoke of oxen. A stout cable was hooked to their whiffle-tree and
they started. On getting fairly into the strength of the current the
crew dropped their poles into the water, and it was all men and oxen,
strained to the utmost, could do at times to stem the sweep of the
mighty tide. It was slow work but we won to smoother water and the boat
tied up for the night. It was hot when we entered lake St Francis, it
was sultry now. Alongside us was a Durham boat like ours, but longer. It
was packed worse than our own, men, women, and children huddled as close
as captives on a slaveship, and like ourselves worn out with fatigue and
facing the thunderstorm that we heard coming without covering of any
kind. The quiet determination to endure much in the belief that we were
coming to a country where we would better our condition sustained all in
doing our best to make light of our trials. To a young woman, who was
trying to get a fretful baby to sleep, the mistress sent me with a tin
of milk and we had some talk. I asked if she was not sorry she had left
the Old Land. 'No, no,' she replied, 'we had no prospect there; here,
with hard work we have the prospect of comfort and of depending on
nobody for work or help.' She kissed her babe and speaking to him said,
'Yes, Willie, you will never know in this country what your mother came
through.' It was this hope that sustained us all. There was only a small
house in sight and the near bush was scrub, so we did not ask to go on
shore and had to wait, patiently, for the heat and mosquitoes kept us
awake. The storm did not last long, but wetted all to the skin who could
not creep under the decked parts of the boat. It brought great relief in
freshening the air. The boatmen were astir before daylight, hoisting the
sails, for the wind had turned to the north, as it often does after a
thunderstorm. There were places, where the current ran so fast that
setting-poles had to be used, but we got on well, and, by-and-by,
sighted two towns--Ogdensburg and Prescott, the one bright and tidy, the
other with a weather-beaten uninviting look. We rejoiced to see a small
steamboat at the Prescott wharf. It was waiting for the stage from
Montreal. A bargain was made to take our party to Kingston. On the boat
we had met at the Soo coming in, she had too many emigrants for the
steamer to take on board, but her captain agreed to tow her. The offer
was made to let any of the women change boats, but none accepted. Like
ourselves, they were travelling in families and feared to be parted. We
were real sorry in bidding good-by to the crew of the Durham boat, for
they had been kind and made companions of the children. As one wee tot
came up to her special favorite, she pursed her lips to be kissed; the
Canadian took the pipe out of his mouth and gave the queerest cry of
delight I ever heard. We could not speak to each other, but in the
language of grimace and expression of countenance the French Canadian
excels. The Montreal stage at last appeared, drawn by four horses, and
on its passengers getting settled in the cabin, the steamer began her
voyage. She was not like the steamboats of later days, which are houses
built on hulls. She was just a good-sized barge with an engine and two
paddle-wheels, which sent her along at a slow rate, all the more slowly
on account of her towing the Durham boat. Our party crowded her fore
deck and our baggage, piled on the freight she had when we got on, was
higher than her paddle-boxes. We stopped three times to take on wood
during the passage, reaching Kingston next morning, where we were to get
a steamer for Toronto, but had to wait for her arrival. She was a larger
boat but of the same pattern as the one we left, having her cabins below
deck. There were over a hundred emigrants, and we so crowded the
steerage that we were packed as close as in the Durham boats. The
prospect of being so near our journey's end made us endure discomfort
cheerfully. I remember how the great size of lake Ontario impressed us
all, having an horizon like that of the Atlantic. We had wondered at the
width of the St Lawrence and at where all the water came from to dash
down its rapids, but this great lake surprised us more, with its
sea-gulls and big white painted ships bowling along. Mr Auld remarked
the county of Ayr would be but an island in it, and Mr Brodie that you
might stick Glasgow in a corner and never know it was there were it not
for the reek. Many were the surmises as to how the master had got on, if
he had got land, if he would meet us, and what our next move would be.
The mistress shared in none of their anxiety. She was calm in her
confidence of her husband's ability and energy. She was convinced he had
secured land and that he would be waiting on the wharf when the steamer
sailed into Toronto. They were what every married couple ought to be--of
one mind and one heart. Our first sight of Toronto pleased us all, and
we had a long view of it, sailing round the island before reaching the
entrance to the harbor. Our eyes were strained as we came near the wharf
in the hope of picking out master among the people who crowded it. All
of a sudden Robbie shouted Father, and a man waved his hand, whom, as
the boat drew closer in we all recognized. The sailors were still
hauling the steamer into her berth, when Mr Brodie shouted 'Have you got
land?' Yes, was the reply. 'Thank God!' ejaculated Mr Brodie, and we all
said the same in our hearts; the relief we felt only emigrants, after a
weary journey, to a strange country can know. Pressing round the master,
with Ruth in his arms and Robbie pulling at his coat tails, he said he
had got land, not far from Toronto, and had secured carts to move us
that day to take possession. First of all, he said, we will have dinner.



Here I stopped. It was my youngest daughter who insisted on my telling
How I Came to Canada, and I had consented on condition she would write
down what I said, for I am a poor penman and no speller. Recalling what
had happened in my early life, and I did so generally as I lay in bed in
my wakeful hours, I dictated to Mary as she found leisure. On reading
over what she had written I had only one fault to find with her
work--she had not taken down the Scotch as I had spoken it. She had put
my words, so she said, into proper English. She protested against my
halting in my narrative with the arrival at Toronto, and insisted I go
on and tell of our life in the backwoods. I cannot resist her pretty way
of pleading with me when she wants anything, for she is so like my
sainted mother that I often start at the resemblance. To me, in her
young face and figure my mother lives again. The agreement was to tell
How I Came to Canada. To that I now add, How we Got On in its Backwoods.



HOW WE GOT ON IN THE BACKWOODS



CHAPTER V.

SEEKING FOR LAND


Leaving Mr Auld and Mr Brodie to see to the unloading of the baggage, we
followed the master up the brae to the street that faces the lake, and
entered a tavern. While waiting for dinner he told us of his experience
in Toronto, not all, for he added to it for a week afterwards, but the
substance of his complete story I will tell at once. The morning after
his arrival be went to the office of the surveyor-general, and found
several in the waiting-room; three he recognized as having come with him
in the steamboat from Kingston. Like himself they all wanted land.
Talking among themselves, an Englishman, who said he had been in Toronto
four days, declared he had got sick coming to the office; he had thought
there would be no difficulty in getting a lot and going to it at once,
but found it was not so. The money he had to carry them to their new
home was going in paying for board of his family. Unless he was assigned
a lot that day, he would cross to the States. All were eager to get
their lots at once; Canada invited emigrants yet, when they came to her
door, there was no hurry in serving them. The master asked the reason,
and got a number of answers. One was that there was too much formality
and redtape, another that the officials were above their business and
treated emigrants as if they were inferior animals, but the reason that
struck the master most was that given by the emigrant who said this was
his fourth day, which was, that if an emigrant had any money they wanted
him to buy land, instead of giving him a government grant. While they
were talking the headman of the office walked past them, accompanied by
a gentleman in military uniform, and went into the inner room. Both
gentlemen were speaking loudly. 'Yes,' said the surveyor-general, 'we
are building a future empire here, and would like more recognition from
the Home government of our services. We are doing a great work with
imperfect means.' 'Ah!' exclaimed the officer, 'what do you need?' 'We
need more money and more officials to direct the stream of immigration.'
So they went on gabbling, while by this time there were over fifty of us
in the waiting-room and round the door outside. Getting tired, the
master asked a clerk who was passing in to see the surveyor, to tell him
there were a number of emigrants wanting lots and if he would be pleased
to help them. We heard the message given and the reply 'I am engaged
with Colonel Rivers, and cannot possibly see them today; go and take
their names and the places where they are staying.' So we gave our
names, said the master, and came away sick at heart. While waiting in
the tavern at a loss what to do a man came into the barroom and asked if
he was Mr Anderson. He had heard he wanted land and could introduce him
to a party who would supply him at a reasonable price. 'I have not come
all the way from Scotland to pay for land; I expect to get a lot on the
government's conditions.' You can get such a lot, replied the stranger,
but when you see it you would not take it. All the government lots are
in the back country, and often wet or stony. What you want is good land
and near a market. He talked on, trying to persuade the master to go
with him and make a purchase, but he said he would take time to think
over what he had told him. The stranger pressed him to come to the bar
and have a treat; the master said No. After he was gone the master asked
the tavern-keeper if he knew the man. 'Oh, yes, he is a runner for the
big bugs who have land for sale.' 'How came he to know I wanted land?'
'Were you not at the surveyor-general's office this morning and left
your name? There is a regular machine to get all the money out of you
emigrants that can be squeezed.' The landlord said nearly all the
desirable land was held by private persons, who had got large grants
under one pretence or another and who were selling it for cash, when the
emigrant had any, or on mortgage if he had none, for if he failed in his
payments they got the lot back with all the improvements the emigrant
and his family had made. After dinner the master took a walk, and
passing along the street the thought struck him that he should call at
the post-office, for there might be a letter from Scotland. Asking a
gentleman to direct him to the office, the reply was he was going that
way and would show him. 'You're a Scotchman,' remarked the gentleman,
'What part are you from?' From Ayrshire. 'That is my native county.' So
they talked until the office was reached. Standing at the door, the
master told him of his perplexity about getting land. 'Ask if there is a
letter for you,' directed the stranger. There was none. 'Now come with
me and I will try to find out some way to help you.' They entered a
large store, opposite the market-place, of which the gentleman was
owner. The place was crowded with customers waiting their turn to be
served. Taking him into a cubby-hole of an office he asked the master to
speak frankly, to tell him how much land he wanted, what money he had,
and the number of his family. When he had learned all, Mr Dunlop, for
that was his name, said, 'You may give up your notion of getting land
for the fees. All the good land, so far surveyed, is in the hands of our
gentry, who live by selling it, or of speculators. The lots the
surveyor-general would give you would be dear for nothing, they are so
far away. You want to be as near the lake, or a town or village as you
can manage, so that you can buy and sell to advantage. Many who go on
remote lots have to leave them after undergoing sufferings no Christian
man or woman should endure. I am busy now; come back at four o'clock and
I will find out what can be done.'

On returning to the store at that hour he found Mr Dunlop had been
called away, but had left a letter, which he was to deliver. With some
difficulty the master found the house. There was a man and woman sitting
in the shade on the stoop. Reading the letter he was asked to sit down.
The master described the man as short and thin and well up in years, but
wiry and active. His wife was comely for her years, with a placid
expression. In reply to his first question, the master addressed him as
Sir. 'Use not that word again; all men are equal before God; use not the
vain distinctions by which so many try to magnify themselves and set
themselves apart from their fellows.' The master was taken aback. The
wife explained that they were Friends, whom the world named Quakers, and
that their yea and nay meant what they expressed; they desired
directness and sincerity in speech. Both took much interest in what the
master told them, for they kept questioning him until they learned how
he came to leave Scotland and of the voyage. They were struck by his
account of the ship grounding off Newfoundland and the wife remarked
'Thee did well to give thanks to Him who saved you.' The address of Mr
Kerr they asked for, and the master promised to get it. 'He has suffered
as we Friends have and still do, for we have no voice in the government
of the country and can hold no office.' A girl came to the door who
said supper was ready. The master rose to leave. 'Nay, thee must break
bread with us; thee art a stranger in a strange land,' said the wife, as
she took hold of his arm. The evening passed too quickly, for the master
enjoyed his company. On rising to go, the Quaker told him he had a block
of land he had taken for a bad debt. 'And what is the price you put on
it?' asked the master. 'I do not sell in that way. Thou must see the
land and if it suits thee, come back, and I will tell thee its price.
Thee take breakfast as early as they can give it, and you will find a
man whom we call Jabez waiting to lead thee where the land is.'

Next morning as the sun was rising over the lake, the master overheard a
man in the barroom asking for him, and hurried from the table. He was
tall and gaunt, with a set mouth that spoke of decision of character. At
the door were two saddled horses and in a few minutes they were trotting
up Yonge street. When they had to slow down, on account of the road
becoming full of yawning holes, Jabez had much to say about backwoods
farming. He had not the personal experience of a settler, but had seen
much of backwoods life and had known scores who had tried it. 'Not one
in five succeeds,' he said, 'some fail from not having money to feed
their families until enough land is under crop to maintain them, others
from going on stony or sandy lots that yield only poor crops, and not a
few from going where it is marshy and fever-and-ague prevail. Many go
into the backwoods who have not the muscle for its hard work or who
will not be content to live on pork and potatoes, until they can get
better, yet even they might do had they perseverance and self-denial.
The Scotch and the North of Ireland people, accustomed to hard work and
spare living, seldom fail.' They were riding past much land in bush,
generally without a strip of clearing. Jabez remarked the curse of
Canada was giving land to people who would not go to live upon it, who
had no intention of clearing it, but held it to sell. A deal of that
land you see was given as grants to old soldiers. A colonel could claim
1200 acres, a major 800, a captain 600 acres, and a private 100 acres.
Not one in twenty who drew their lots meant to live on them, and of the
few who tried most of them failed and left. Speculators had their agents
round taverns and stores ready to buy soldiers' tickets, and got
transfers for a few dollars, sometimes for a keg of whiskey or a
hundredweight of pork. If you want to kill a country, deal out its land
as grants to old soldiers. It does the soldiers no good and keeps back
settlement, for the grants they got are left by speculators unimproved,
to the hurt of the genuine settlers, who want roads opened, fences put
up, and ditches dug. You will find out this yourself when you begin to
clear a lot. This giving away land to soldiers is well meant, but
soldiers wont go on it and it is just a way to make speculators rich. No
man should get an acre from the government unless he binds himself to
live on the land and clear it. On the master saying he was told much
land was got by politicians, Jabez grew warm in denouncing them.
Whatever party was in office, used the land as a means of bribery. They
bought the support of members by grants of land and, when an election
came round, got the settlers to vote as they wished under threats of
making them act up to the letter of their settlement duties or offering
back-dues and clear titles in return for their support. No candidate
opposed to the government can be elected for a backwoods county. With
such talk Jabez relieved their journey until they came to a side-road,
which was a mere bridle-path. Up this they turned, passing through solid
bush. It was a bright, hot day in the clearings, but under the trees it
was gloomy and chill, with a moist odor of vegetation which was grateful
to the master, and this was his first experience of the bush. Fallen
trees, which lay across the track, their horses jumped, as they also did
on meeting wet gullies. Jabez said the path had been brushed by an
Englishman, rumored the son of a lord, who had bought the block of land
intending to stay on it. That was the only improvement he made. He came
late in the Fall and society in Toronto was more agreeable than felling
trees. He bet on horse-races that took place on the ice and spent the
evenings at cards. In the spring his money was gone; had to sell his
land to pay his debts, and returned to England. On reaching the end of
the bridle-path the horses were hitched. Jabez searched among the brush
until he found a surveyor's stake. Placing a compass on top of it, he
cut with his jackknife three rods which he pointed. He pushed two into
the soil on either side of the stake, and went ahead with the third.
Posting the master behind the first, he told him to keep the three in
range and to shout to him if he stepped on either side. Producing from
the bag behind his saddle a hatchet, he went forward, cutting down the
brush where it blocked his straight course. When some hundred yards
away, he cried to the master to come on, it was all right. On joining
him Jabez pointed to a scar made in the bark of a maple. 'That is the
surveyor's blaze, made five years ago. I was in doubts where to find it,
for the weather has blackened it. We are all right now, and will find
another farther on.' So they did, several more, though they were so
faint only the trained eye of Jabez could detect them. As he came to
each tree, he used the hatchet to make a fresh blaze, while any branch
that obstructed the view between the blazed trees was lopped off.
Suddenly it grew lighter: they were again in the sunshine and before
them was a sheet of water. It was too small to be called a lake; it was
just a pond, set in the heart of the woods. The master was greatly taken
with it and leaning over a log drank heartily, for the water was clear
and sweet, though warm. 'We may as well rest and take our bite here,'
remarked Jabez, producing from the pouch slung at his back some
soldiers' hard tack, with thin sliced pork between instead of butter. He
explained it was hard to tell the quality of the soil in the woods, and
many were deceived, especially as regards stones. The forest litter
covers them, and it is only when the plow is started that the settler
finds he has a lot that will give him many a tired back in trying to get
rid of the worst of them. When you find big trees, maple or any other
kind of hard wood, it is a sure sign the soil is rich, but if the trees
are scrub or of soft wood it is certain to be poor. Pine is not to be
relied on as indicating good land for the settler. The tallest and
finest pines are often on the top of stony ridges. Starting anew, they
came to the streamlet that fed the pond and a short tramp beyond it
Jabez spied another surveyor's stake. 'This is the western limit of
Bambray's lot; between the two stakes he has 400 acres.' He asked the
master if he wanted to cross the lot lengthways and see the two ends,
but he saw no need, for so far as he could judge the land was all of the
same quality. 'Supposing I buy the lot, how am I to get into it?' 'You
will have to continue the bridle-path to where you place your house, and
that is enough for an ox-sledge.' 'That means some work?' 'Yes,' replied
Jabez smiling 'there is nothing to be had in the bush without hard work;
it is hard work and poor grub.'

Coming back to the horses, they found they had finished the oats Jabez
had brought, and were nibbling at the leaves within reach. On regaining
Yonge street, the horses were watered at a tavern, Jabez dropping five
coppers on the counter, the price of two drinks. 'You are expected to
drink when you stop to water a horse, but I want no whiskey, I prefer
to pay for what the horse drinks.' Arrived in Toronto the master said he
would go and see Mr Bambray after supper. Jabez asked him to remember
that Quakers do not dicker, so if the price was too high for him to pay
to come away at once.

The master found Mr Bambray reading a newspaper, told him he was
satisfied with the land and would buy it were the price within his
ability. The Quaker took from a desk a sheet of paper; pointing to the
figures written on it he said, 'I do not deal in land, believing it not
to be agreeable with the teaching of the Gospel to make merchandize of
what God intended for all his children. I do not consider it right to
buy land you are not able or do not mean to make use of, but secure with
a view to sell at an advanced price to the man who will cultivate it.
These 400 acres were transferred to me for a just debt which the man
could not otherwise pay. On this line is the amount of that debt, here
are the legal charges paid by me in the transaction, and here is
interest. The whole totals $472, which is the price.' The master was
surprised, for from what he had heard of the prices asked for land so
close to Toronto at least double would have been sought. 'My friends and
I are able to pay that sum to you and we take the land.' The Quaker
moved not a muscle. Taking up a quill he wrote out a promise of sale,
and was given a bank of Scotland note for ten pounds as surety.
Inquiring what steps he would next take, the master was advised to
secure the services of Jabez for a month at least. 'Thee are ignorant
of bush-farming and need an instructor, otherwise loss will befall thee
and much trouble.' Arranging for the final transfer of the land, the
master sought out Jabez. He and two brothers carried on a cartage
business. Jabez said there would not be more calls than his brothers
could attend to until August, and he would go if he was willing to pay
two dollars a day for himself and an ox-team. 'That is settled,' replied
the master. 'Now what is to be done first?' 'To cut out a sledge-road
across your lot, so that you may get your freight in.' To help he was to
hire a man, and it was arranged to start at daylight.

Next morning Jabez appeared at the door of the tavern with an ox-team,
and seated beside him in the wagon was a youth. 'This is Jim Sloot, who
can handle an axe with any man. You have that to learn. It is the axe
that has made Canada.' Arrived at the bridle-path that led to their lot,
they had a day's work on it brushing and prying off fallen trees. On
reaching the lot master had bought, trees had to be felled to continue
the path. These Jabez and Jim assailed, while master trimmed their
branches off with a hatchet. On the evening of the third day they were
in sight of the pond, when the master left, for the Kingston boat might
arrive next morning, and he must be on hand to meet his family. How he
met us I have already told.



CHAPTER VI.

FIRST DAYS IN THE BACKWOODS


Our freight, as Jabez termed it, filled three wagons and started up
Yonge-street. A fourth wagon came to the door of the tavern for the
women and children, I being left to help them. We were told to stop at
Mr Dunlop's store for supplies that had been bought. He came out to see
us and in a minute was thick in talk with the women about Ayrshire. On
the team starting he declared meeting them was like a visit to Scotland.
The driver pointed out to us how straight Yonge-street was; runs forty
miles to Lake Simcoe straight as the handle of my whip. It was a jolty,
hot drive but we enjoyed it hugely; everything was new to us and we were
all in high spirits at the prospect of our long journey being about to
end and in coming into possession of our estates, about which there was
no end of jokes. Mrs Auld was in doubts as to what name they would give
their hundred acres, while Mrs Brodie settled on Bonnybraes for hers.
'But we have not seen a hill since we left Montreal,' remarked the
mistress. 'I dinna care,' rejoined Mrs Brodie, Bonnybraes was the name
of the farm we left and it will make the woods hamelike.' When we spied
at a distance several men standing by the roadside we gave a shout of
joy and were soon reunited. The laughing and talking might have been
heard half a mile away. Jabez now took the lead. As the wagons arrived
he had caused them to be unloaded under a clump of hemlocks, the chests
and packages being arranged to make a three-sided enclosure. In front he
had started a fire, over which, slung from a pole resting on crotched
sticks, was a pot, and soon the mistress was preparing supper. It was
dark before we had settled for the night, which was so warm that
sleeping under the trees was no hardship. Jabez covered the dying fire
with damp litter, the smoke of which kept off the mosquitos, which
pestered us dreadfully.

In the morning Jabez was the first to be stirring. Giving me two pails
he directed me to go to a house I would find a bit down Yonge-street to
get water, and, if they had it, some milk. The house I found and also
the well, but how to draw water out of it I knew not. There was nobody
stirring until my awkward attempts to work the bucket brought a man out.
I told him who I was. 'You are an emigrant and this is the first
sweep-well you have tried to work. Well, now, you have got to learn,'
and he showed me how simple it was. He was much interested when he heard
of our party and of their camping out. 'Stay a minute till I tell
mother.' Coming back to the door he cried to me to go on with the water
and he would fetch milk after a while. The porridge was ready when he
and his wife appeared with the milk. He called his wife mother, which we
thought strange. She was a smart, tidy woman and was soon deep in advice
to our housekeepers about bush ways of doing things and bush cookery.
After they had gone their children, three in number, came shyly round
and watched us with open-eyed curiosity.

Jabez was in haste to get us moved to our own location, and to do so had
provided two oxsleds. Taking charge of one and Sloot of the other they
dragged the first loads over the bush track, all the men, except the
master, following. On returning for a second load, Jabez reported Brodie
and Auld were pleased with the land and that Allan and the children were
having a wash in the pond. How to get grannie through the woods
concerned the master. Jabez solved the difficulty by making a
comfortable couch on his sled, on which she rested, with the master on
one side, Robbie running alongside of the ox, and myself following. So
slowly and carefully did the ox step that grannie was little
discomposed. On stepping from her rude conveyance, she gazed in wonder
on the pond and the forest that encompassed it. 'This is our new farm,'
shouted Allan in her ear, 'A' this ground and the lakie?' 'Yes,'
answered Allan. 'An thae trees?' 'Yes,' replied her grandson, 'father is
laird of it all.' She stood for a minute or two as if dazed; and then a
light came to her face as if she had suddenly comprehended it all. She
stepped to the master, and laying her hands on his shoulders said, 'You
have been a good and true son and weel you deserve to be a laird.'
Seeing a black squirrel jump from tree to tree Robbie darted off with a
shout of glee.

Jabez cut a number of poles, and with them and blankets made two roomy
tents, which were to give shelter until shanties were built. Before
sites for them could be picked out it was necessary to divide the 400
acre lot. Brodie and Auld were to get each a hundred acres and they were
agreed in choosing the portion of land that lay south of the road and
included the pond. The master, as I found later, would have liked that
part for himself, but willingly agreed to their choice. The next point
was to divide the 200 acres between Auld and Brodie. Covered equally
with heavy bush there was no apparent difference, yet a division had to
be made. Jabez, seeing that one waited on the other to decide, cut two
twigs and held them out between his fingers. 'The man who draws the long
one, gets the east half, and the short one the west.' Brodie drew the
long bit of stick and Auld the short. It was agreed to raise Brodie's
shanty first, as he had young children, and the Aulds could stay with
them until their own shanty was ready. Brodie selected the spot for his
home, and we began at once to cut the trees that stood upon it. Saturday
evening Jabez and Jim returned to Toronto to stay over Sunday. The
weather had been warm with two showers and camping was no discomfort
beyond the inconvenience to the women. There was no complaining, for we
were all in good spirits, buoyed up with the prospect of future
prosperity, and determined, if hard work would ensure it, we would not
spare ourselves. Our tasks for the week were ended and we gathered on
the site of Brodie's house, sitting on the felled trees. It was a calm
night with soft air, the moonbeams making a pathway of light across the
pond. None seemed inclined to speak, just wanting to rest and enjoy the
peaceful hour. It was Alice who broke the silence by starting to sing,
and song followed song, all joining when there was a chorus. It was a
strange thought that came into my mind, that for all the ages these
woods and lakelet had existed this was the first time they had echoed
back our Scottish melodies. When Alice started Ye banks and braes o'
bonny Doon, we helped in the first verse, but as the scenes we had left
rose before our minds voices quavered, until all became silent, tears
flowed, and Mrs Auld was sobbing. 'This wont do,' cried the master, 'we
have come here as to a land of promise and there must be no looking
backward. We go forward. Alice, start the second paraphrase and then to
bed.'

I have seen many a fine Sabbath morning but none to me like that one
which was our first in the bush. The serenity of air and sky, the
solemnity of the woods, the stillness sweetened by the song of birds,
struck even the children, who were quieter than usual. After breakfast
and things were tidied up we had worship. The master read selections
from the closing chapters of Hebrews, and his prayer was one of
thankfulness to the Hand that had preserved us on our journey and
brought us to a quiet resting-place. Mrs Auld heard the children their
questions and had a lively time in scolding and coaxing them by turns to
never mind the squirrels but attend to what she was saying.

The dinner things had been cleared away when a visitor came out of the
woods. He had a red, flabby face, framed in a thick whisker turning
grey. The chief feature of his dress was a long surtout, that had been
part of a gentleman's dress-suit in its day and a shabby tile hat.
Addressing the master with deliberate ceremony, he told how he had heard
of new-comers and felt it his duty to welcome them and tender his
services. He had been four years in Canada and his experience would be
of high value in directing them what to do. Growing voluble he pointed
out what he considered were the mistakes we had already made, ending
with a plump proposal that, for his board and a certain money
consideration, he would take the direction of the settlement and
guarantee its immediate prosperity. He paused and asked for a drink. Mrs
Auld handed him a dipper. Smelling it, he said experience had taught him
the prudence of never drinking lake water without its being qualified by
a few spoonfuls of whisky. 'If you will be so kind,' he said to Mrs
Auld, 'as to bring your greybeard, I shall have pleasure in giving a
toast to your new settlement.' 'Whisky! cried Mrs Auld, 'there's no a
drop to be found here.' Turning to the master he said, 'This will never
do; you will need bees to raise the shanties, to chop, and to fallow,
and not a man will come unless there is whisky and plenty to eat. A keg
of Toronto's best will be to you a paying investment.' The master, who
had remained silent, carefully measuring the stranger, now spoke. 'I
thank you for your advice, as to your help we do not need it, for, as
you see, we are strong in ourselves.' The Englishman, for such he was,
grew angry. 'You unmannerly Scot, you will have cause to regret scorning
my services. I never had such a reception, for in the poorest shanty
they greet you with a cup of welcome.' So saying he disappeared. In
telling Jabez of him next day, he said the master had done well to come
out squarely. Bees had grown to be a nuisance and a loss. When they
heard of one, drinkers would travel ten miles to attend and others came
just for the sport of the day. The settler would run in debt to lay in a
stock of food and whisky. Out of the crowd that would come several would
not do a hand's turn, but drink and eat; part would work during the
forenoon and then, after dinner, join in the talk and drinking; while
the remainder would put in a faithful day's labor. It often happened
that bees ended in quarrels, sometimes in fights. A settler, Jabez said,
would do better to use the cost of drink and food in hiring labor.

In the afternoon the women began writing letters to Scotland, using the
tops of chests to rest the paper on. The sheets were crossed and
recrossed, for postage was high, fifty cents the half ounce. Allan and I
walked into the bush to see what it was like. The trees were all large
and well set apart with little underbrush. Fallen trees and decaying
logs abounded. Whether it was jumping or going round these that caused
us to lose our way I cannot say, but after a long walk we failed to
sight the pond. We made a fresh start and tried another direction
without success. 'We are lost, for sure,' exclaimed Allan. Putting his
hands to his mouth he let out a yell that startled the crows from a
tree-top. We listened, there was no answering sound. Then he whistled
long and sharp. Again no answer. Jabez had pointed out to me that the
north could always be known by more moss growing on that side of trees,
and I decided we had been travelling in that direction. If we could have
got a glimpse of the sun we would have known for sure the points of the
compass, but the foliage of the tree-tops prevented a ray getting
through. We walked smartly, as we thought southwards, when Allan again
yelled with all his might. Strange to say, an hillo came from the woods
on our left and quite close to us. We hurried in the direction of the
sound and came out on a small clearance with a shanty in the middle. A
well-made young fellow stood at the door. 'Lost your bearings, eh?' he
asked. 'Yes,' answered Allan, 'and glad you heard my yell.' He led us
into the shanty; the table was spread for supper and a man and woman
were seated ready to begin 'These two fellows are Scotties, new-come
out, and got wandered,' was our introduction. Responding to a hearty
invitation, seats were found and we helped to dispose of the dried
venison and bread that was on the board. 'Did you ever taste coffee like
that?' asked the woman as Allan passed in his tin for a second supply.
'That is bush-coffee and better than the storestuff. It is made from
dandelion roots and I will tell your folk how to make it.' They were
Americans and had led a wandering life, for the father was a trapper.
Game becoming scarce from growing settlement on the American side he had
crossed into Canada and had spent the last two winters round lake
Simcoe. 'There is no hunting after February' he said, 'for every critter
then begins nursing and the fur is not worth paying for, so we came
south and took this shanty, setting to work to make axhelves and
shingles, there being ready sale in Toronto. We move back to the lakes
in the Fall.' I asked him about the shanty. He replied that it was not
his nor did he know whose it was. 'Like enough some poor emigrant drew
the lot and after breaking his back with hard work in making a
clearance, found he could not pay the price and just lit out. You will
find deserted shanties everywhere in the bush left by families who lost
heart.' He showed much interest in our coming and we had difficulty in
getting him to recognize our location. It was not until I mentioned the
pond that he recognized the spot. 'Why, you aint much over a mile to
go.' When we were about to start the whole family got ready to go with
us. 'The sun won't set for an hour yet, and there is good moonlight,'
said Simmins, for that he told us was his name. 'Did you never get
lost?' I asked. 'That is a foolish question to ask of anybody born in
the woods for they never lose their sense of direction.' He advised me
to carry a compass and take its bearings in going and follow them in
returning. Suddenly Mrs Simmins burst into song. It was a hymn, sung in
a style I never heard before, but have since at many a campmeeting. Her
voice was strong, rising to a shriek at high notes. The husband and son
joined in, enjoying it as much as she did. In telling me of the alarm
felt at our not returning to supper, Alice said they sat fearing
something had befallen us, and that, if the night set in, we might be
lost and never be found alive, when suddenly they heard from the depths
of the woods the words

     Then let our songs resound
       And every heart be love;
     We're marching through Emmanuel's ground
       To fairer worlds above.

Distance mellowed the harshness of the voices and the words sounded like
a message from heaven. Their distress was that neither Allan's voice nor
my own was distinguishable. Glad they were when we emerged from the
trees and joined them round the fire that had been made to blaze as a
guide to us. Our visitors made themselves at home at once. 'Why do you
call your son Sal?' asked the mistress, 'that is a girl's name.' The
reply was, 'His Sunday came is Salvation Simmins; we call him Sal for
short.' 'And your husband addresses you as Jedu; what name is that?' 'I
was a girl of sixteen before I was baptised, and the preacher gave me
the name Jeduthan, because I was the chief musician.' 'Jeduthan was a
man, the friend of David.' 'Bible don't say he was a man, and for years
and years I was the chief musician at the campmeetings. Guess it was the
same in David's time as in ours--the women did the heft of the singing?'
Then she began singing, husband and son helping. 'Why don't you all
sing?' she asked, 'aint you got religion yet? My, if you heard Elder
Colver you would be on your knees and get converted right away.' The
mistress said they did not know the words of the hymns she sang, when
she became curious to hear us. Alice struck up Come, let us to the Lord
our God, and we all joined. 'Whew!' exclaimed Mrs Simmins, very pretty,
but that aint the stuff to bring sinners to the penitent-bench--you have
to be loud and strong. Ever hear a negro hymn? No, well we will give you
one, Whip the ole devil round the stump.' As they sang they acted the
words. We parted with mutual good wishes, the mistress remarking, after
they left, that God spoke in divers ways and their presentation of His
truths, though rude and wild to us, doubtless suited the frontier
population among whom they had lived and did good. 'The ax before the
plow, the ox-drag before the smoothing harrow,' added the master.

On Jabez appearing next morning he had six bags of potatoes on the
ox-sled, which were for seed as well as eating, and said he had left a
load of pine-boards to be hauled through the bush to floor the shanties.
They now had to decide what kind of shanty they wanted. The cheapest, he
told us, for all, men, women, and children, had gathered to hear about
the building,--was a house twelve feet by twelve, with basswood staves
for flooring or the bare soil, an opening that served both as door and
window, with a blanket to keep out the cold, basswood scoops or elm bark
for the roof, in which a hole was left to let out the smoke. There were
many such shanties, but living in them was misery. From that sort they
varied in size and finish, all depending on the settler's means. With
$25 a good deal could be done. Size and finish were agreed on, it being
understood the master, who had most money, would have a larger house.
This being decided, Mr Brodie set to work to dig his cellar and I was
sent to Simmins to see if he could supply shingles for the three
shanties and to ask Sal if he would hire until they were finished. I
took the compass and found their clearance without trouble. In returning
Sal, who carried his axe, blazed the trees, so that it would be easy to
know the way. The following morning his mother accompanied Sal. She came
to show how they made bread in the bush, and had brought a dishful of
bran-risings. Explaining what yeast was and how to treat it, she set a
panful of dough. When the mass had risen, she kneaded it, and moulded it
into loaves. The bake kettle having been warmed, the loaves were placed
in it, and when they had risen enough, she put the cover on, and planted
the kettle in a bed of glowing embers. The bread was sweet and a welcome
change to the cakes made on the griddle or frying-pan. We had more than
bread that day. Mrs Simmins pointed out plants, like lambs quarter and
dandelion, whose leaves made greens that added relish to our unvarying
diet of pork. How much more she taught I do not know, but her visit was
a revelation to our women-folk. Grannie was delighted with her singing
because she could hear it.



CHAPTER VII.

ANDREW ANDERSON'S DIARY


In Scotland it had been the master's custom to keep a record of work
done, and of money paid or received. On parting with a neighbor, a
farmer who had a notion of emigrating, he was asked, as a favor, to keep
notes of his own daily experience. He had his doubts as to accounts of
Canada he had read being correct, and knew whatever the master set down
as to climate and other conditions he could depend upon. The book in
which these notes were made was never sent, the master having learnt his
friend had taken a new tack of his farm. From this journal I will now
quote.

June 21.--Rushing work in getting up the shanties. Four men felling
trees and sawing their trunks into the desired length. Awkward in
chopping, I took the job of squaring the logs with the adze-ax. Gordon
notched the ends as I finished them. Digging his cellar Brodie struck
clay, which Jabez tells me is worth money to us. Under Ailie's
direction, the children planted potatoes round the stumps of the trees
as they were cut down, and made a garden on a bare strip of land on the
pond bank. Have got all the boards drawn from Yonge-street. Slow-work
with an ox-sled, having to dodge to avoid striking trees.

June 22.--Jabez helped Brodie to finish his cellar, lining it with
red-cedar poles. Great heat. Oxen drawing logs for the shanty.

June 23.--Began raising today. Jabez, never at a loss in finding the
easiest way, had left standing two trees at the site of the house.
Placing a stout pole in their crotches, long enough to reach across from
one to the other, he attached a pulley. An ox, hitched to the end of the
pulley-rope, hauled the logs to the spot and pulled them up as needed.
This saved much lifting and the walls went up quickly. Gordon had
notched the ends of the logs so exactly that they went together without
trouble.

June 24--Have got Brodie's house up to the square and began putting up
the rafters. Cloudy; heat more bearable.

June 25--Saturday; eager to get the shanty finished all hands turned to
the work, got the shingling finished and the ground floor laid. Mrs
Brodie moved in at dark. Though there was neither door nor windows in
place, she said she was prouder of her shanty than the Duchess of
Hamilton could be of her palace.

June 26--The heat of this country surpasses anything we ever knew in
Scotland. All very tired and glad to rest in the shade, with a smudge to
keep off the mosquitoes. Strange to say, the children do not seem to
care much about the heat.

June 27--Jabez arrived with a wagon loaded with lumber. Drew on sled
first the doors and sashes, which he had got a carpenter to make for
Brodie's house, which Gordon fitted in. Afternoon being wet, we helped
to lay the loft floor and to chink the house from the inside. Gordon put
up two wide shelves in the corners for beds, and is making a table with
benches on each side to sit on. The table has crossed legs; the benches
have no backs.

June 28--Everything being ready, began on my house.

June 29--Made good progress, for we have been gaining experience.

July 1--The roof being on, moved into our shanty; well we did, for it
poured at night.

July 2--Had a long talk about chimneys for our houses. The right way is
to have a mason build them. There may be stones on our land, but there
are none in sight. Jabez says we will have to put up with stick
chimneys. In the hot weather we are having, cooking out of doors is all
right unless when it rains.

July 3--The Sabbath rest beneath our own roof was sweet. Mary pleased
and happy and mother proud of the house.

July 4--Leaving to Gordon the finishing of our shanty, the rest of us
tackled with might and main Auld's. How quickly Jabez and Sal can hew
down a tree is a wonder to me.

July 5--Auld moved his belongings into his shanty this evening, though
it is not half done. Gave Jabez money to bring out with him on Monday
morning the iron-fixtures for our fire-places and the lime for the
chimneys.

July 6--On going out this morning saw a deer with her hind drinking at
the far end of the pond; beautiful creatures. Thank God for the Sabbath.
Without it we would have broken down with our hard toil.

July 7--Jabez brought word from Mr Bambray that he wanted us on the 9th
to give us our deeds. Told me he could not finish out a month, as he had
expected. Business had become brisk in Toronto, and his brothers needed
his help. He started at once to build the chimney in Brodie's house, so
that we could see how to do the other two. In laying the floor a 6-foot
square had been left uncovered for the fire-place. In a frame of heavy
elm logs that fitted the spot, puddled clay mixed with sand was rammed
hard. Two jambs were built with brick which Jabez had brought and across
them a thick plate of cast iron, which was to support the front of the
chimney. The back of the chimney and sides had the few stones found in
digging the cellars, and on top of them was laid more brick until the
ceiling was reached. Care had been taken to build in a crane to hang
pots. From the floor of the loft squarely cut pieces of cedar, 2 inches
thick, were laid in clay mortar, and as the work went on were plastered
with the same mortar inside and out, until the top was two feet above
the ridge-board. Jabez said there was no danger of the cedar sticks
taking fire. They were so well-beded in the clay that when it hardened
the chimney was all one piece. If it fell, it would not break.

July 11--Brodie, Auld, and myself accompanied Jabez on his going to
Toronto. Mr Bambray had arranged everything and in an hour we had paid
him and each of us had his deed. We asked him about securing a road to
our lots. He said two blocks of bush lay between them and Yonge-street.
Both were owned by a man who was holding to sell, and he was afraid any
influence we could exert would not compel him to make the road, though
that was the condition on which the government had given the land. Met
in the tavern several emigrants eager to get lots, all discontented with
their treatment at the government office. One said he would go to
Illinois. Asked how he would get there. Told me by Buffalo and lake
Erie; land sold there at $1.25 an acre and no bush to clear.

July 12--Tired and rainy. Auld and Brodie came over to square our
accounts. From the time we left the ship till we got into our shanties,
we lived in common. Found Brodie had least money and more mouths to
fill. His wife said she did not fear--they would strachle through until
they got a crop. We had a long talk about getting a yoke of oxen, which
we must have. Offered, if I got them, they would pay me in days' work. I
decided to put up a stable to be ready when I bought a yoke.

July 13--Took a tramp to see rear of my lot, Gordon guiding with a
compass. All of a sudden the bush ceased, and on finding I stood on the
edge of a swamp, I got angry at my being fooled into paying for a
cattail marsh. There is quite a stretch not very wide, angling across
the width of my lot. On thinking it over, am satisfied Bambray knew no
more about its existence than I did. Returning home I followed the
creek, which starts from it. There was a little water flowing. Noticed,
where the creek leaves the marsh, a stretch of tall wild grass.

July 14--Could not sleep thinking about the swamp. Got Gordon to make a
dozen cross-staffs and started for it to take levels. Found the marsh
sloped towards the creek, and between where it entered and a hundred
yards down the creek there is a fall of three feet, so the marsh can be
drained. Dug down in several places and found the marsh to be a deposit
of black soil on top of clay.

July 17--The Simmins family spent the afternoon with us. He knew about
the swamp, and called it a, beaver-meadow. The grass that grew at the
head of the creek would make hay good enough for cattle. Said I would
find the dam the beavers had made if I searched a while, and if I got
out the logs that formed it, the water would have a free course into the
creek.

July 18--Spent all Saturday cutting grass at the head of the creek. It
is fine but long. Turned it today and, if rain keeps off, will be ready
to cock tomorrow afternoon, the sun is so hot and the grass so ripe.

July 19--Had Sal, Gordon, and Archie come and help to find the dam the
beavers had built. On a crowbar showing us where the logs were buried,
shovelled off the dirt and pried them out. It was wet, dirty work but we
managed it. Cleared the bed of the creek of the rubbish that choked it
at its head. Sal found a turtle, which he carried home.

July 20--Brodie and Auld came early and we set to work to get logs ready
for the ox-stable. Very dry and hot.

July 21--Piled the hay in two stacks and thatched them as well as we
could. We had just finished when a thunderstorm burst.

July 23--Gordon, who has made furniture for all the houses, set up a
cupboard for Ailie, of which she is quite proud. The lad has a wonderful
knack, and can copy anything he has a chance to examine. A deluge of
rain; never saw such a downfall in Scotland. Lasted six hours and then
came out sultry.

July 24--Sal stepped in while we were at breakfast with the hind quarter
of a deer, his father had come on during the heavy rain and shot. First
fresh meat we have had. Found it dry eating. Sunday though it was,
walked with Sal to head of creek and found water was running freely into
it from the marsh. Coming back Sal spied bees round a tree and said he
would get the honey next month. Told me the names of the different
squirrels and birds we saw and he had fun with a ground hog.

July 30--Although the weather has been warm have worked steadily
chopping down trees; the sound of the axe coming from the three lots. On
each of them there is now quite a clearance. Jabez had shown us how to
make plan-heaps, and we so fell the trees, which will save hard work
when we come to burn. Except myself, all are getting to be expert with
the axe, though Sal, with less exertion, can chop down two to Allan's
one.

August 1--Growth far outstrips that of Scotland, and no wonder, there is
no such heat there. In thinning turnips and the like Ailie kept what is
pulled for boiling; they make good greens. We had a long talk about
buying a yoke of oxen at once, and Brodie and Auld agreed to help me
with the stable for them.

August 3--Fixed on spot for stable and began preparing logs for it,
choosing cedar and pine as being easier to handle.

August 8--Began raising stable. Gordon made very neat corners.

August 9--Had stable up to the square when we dropped work.

August 11--Got the rafters on. Having no sawed lumber or shingles, will
have to cut basswood staves and scoops.

August 13--Stable finished and all proud of it. There is a roomy loft
which will be useful for more than fodder, for I am told when there is
no bed in the shanty for a visitor they 'loft him.'

August 14--Had arranged to walk to Toronto, for none of us have been
inside a church since we left Scotland, but the sun came out with such a
blistering heat that we had to give up our intention. It is awfully
lonesome in the bush, and were it not for the work you are forced to do,
we would get vacant-minded. It has been a great blessing in every way
that the three families settled together. I can believe the report that
a family planted in the depths of the bush, without a neighbor nearer
than three miles, abandoned all they had accomplished to get company.

August 15--While chinking the stable, Gordon helping, I heard a crash
and a cry from where Allan was chopping. We ran to the spot, and my
heart jumped into my mouth, when I saw him lying as if he were dead
under a big branch. I was for dragging him out, when Gordon showed me
the movement would bring down the butt of the branch on his body. He ran
for help. Ailie came first and then Brodie, and while the three of us
held up the limb of the tree, Ailie pulled him out. She was calmer than
any of us. Carrying him to the house, we had the satisfaction of finding
there was no bone broken. A blue mark above the right eye showed where
he had been struck. As he was breathing easily we had hopes he would
come to, but it was long before he did, and it was the most anxious hour
Ailie and I had ever known. When he opened his eyes, and looking
wonderingly round asked, 'What is a' the steer aboot?' we never before
thanked God with such fervor. Gordon had run for Mrs Simmins, and while
we were keeping wet cloths on Allan's head, she hurried in. Looking at
the mark, which was now swollen, and feeling all round it, Mrs Simmins
declared there was no fracture of the skull and that the blow had only
stunned him. 'Well for him that he is a thick-headed Scotchman or he
would have been killed,' she remarked. Taking a fleam from her pocket,
she lanced the lump and let it bleed freely. 'If bruised blood is left
to get into the system, there will be a fever, in which many a man has
died.' Allan fell asleep and when he woke it was to ask for a drink.

Aug. 16--Allan woke this morning all right, except feeling giddy. He
will never again have as narrow an escape with his life. The tree he was
felling, a big maple, in falling toppled over a dead tree beside it,
which was so rotten that it fell in a shower of pieces.

Aug. 18.--Went to see the swamp and glad to find it was drier. The water
has got vent and is seeping into the creek. Could walk on parts that
would not carry before. Looked it over to plan how to drain it. Gordon,
who was with me, said, Cut a ditch up the centre. I showed him that
would not do when the swamp came to be plowed. The right way was to cut
a ditch across the head and have it empty into another along the south
side to the creek. Looked at me in wonder as he asked if I ever expected
to plow it. Said I would grow grain on it before other three years. On
returning he and I did a bit of underbrushing, piling as much of the
brush as we could round the felled timber to help to burn it.

Aug. 19--Kept underbrushing all day.

Aug. 20--So hot gave the ax a rest. In the afternoon a thunderstorm. The
downpour tested the roof of the stable, which leaked in only one place,
where a scoop had split.

Aug. 21--Quite cool with a brisk northerly breeze. Wife and myself
started for Toronto, and never enjoyed a walk more. Did us good to watch
the clearances as we passed along. Fall wheat all cut and stacked.
Barley being cradled and oats looking extra heavy though short in the
straw. The sight of gardens and patches of potatoes pleased Ailie, and
we both were surprised by the Indian corn, which we never saw before. It
was tasseling. The bell was ringing when we reached Toronto and had to
ask our way to the Presbyterian church. The crowd was going to the
Episcopal and Methodist churches. The service was dry and cold, but it
did us both good to worship with our fellows once more and join in the
psalms. As we were walking away I heard somebody behind us call, Andrew
Anderson, and looking back saw Mrs Bambray. Told her we were going to
the tavern for dinner. 'Thee shall go to no tavern on the seventh day,'
and slipping her arm into my wife's, led us to her house. Pointing to a
door she told me to go in and I would see what I never saw in Scotland,
and led my wife upstairs. Opening the door I found myself in a backshed,
with Bambray rubbing ointment on a negro's arm. The man was a runaway
slave and had arrived that morning on a schooner from Oswego. Bambray
had washed him and dressed him in clean overalls. He bade the negro pull
off his shirt so that I might see the marks of the welts made by a
whipping he had got with a blacksnake whip and his master's brand, made
with a hot iron, on his right arm. The left arm had got injured in his
flight and had an unhealed wound. The poor fellow said he came from
Maryland and had known no trouble until his wife had been taken from him
and sold. His master ordered him to pick on another woman, but he loved
his wife and ran away to find her; had been caught and whipped to within
an inch of his life. Hearing slaves were free in Canada, he took the
first chance to slip away. He hid during the day, and at night, guided
by the plow in the sky, kept northwards. He got some food by visiting
negro huts, and at one of these he was told how a band of white people
helped negroes seeking their liberty. Finding a house he was directed to
call at, he found it was true. The man fed him and ferried him across a
river and gave him the landmarks of the next house he was to call at for
help, and from one to another he was passed along until he got to
Oswego, where he was hid in the hold of a schooner whose captain was an
Englishman. It had taken him a long time to make the journey, he could
not tell me how long, for he did not know the days of the week much less
the months. On getting to Toronto he was guided by a sailor boy to
Bambray's house, which was one of several where runaways were sure of
help. Asked Bambray what he would do with the man. When fit for work he
would be given an ax, saw, and sawhorse and was sure of earning a
living. 'Me strong,' said the man, standing up, 'and me free.' Left
Bambray's late in the afternoon and got home before sunset.

Aug. 27--A week of steady work chopping. We must get clearances big
enough to raise crops for next year's living no matter how hot the days
are.

Aug. 28--The Simmins family spent the day with us. They leave for the
lake Simcoe country. All three like the free life of fishing, trapping,
and hunting, and spoke as if they were going on a holiday. If they did
well and got a big pack of furs, they intend in the spring to try
Illinois, so we may not meet again. They sang and talked all day and we
parted with sorrow. The days are still hot but the nights are cool with
heavy dews.

Aug. 30--Each day hard at work felling trees. When I first saw our lot
and how thick the trees stood on it I could hardly believe it possible
we could clear the land of them, yet we have been here scarce three
months and there is a great slash. Taking the trees one by one and
perseverance has done it. Burning the felled trees that cumber the
ground is the next undertaking. This cutting out a home from the bush is
work that exhausts body and mind, but the reward is what makes life
sweet to right-minded people--independence.

September 1--Had new potatoes to-day. They are dry and mealy and
abundant in yield. I may say this is the first food the land has given
us.

Sept. 2--Had a chance to send a note to Jabez to look out a suitable
yoke of oxen. On going to Yonge-street found a long building going up.
It is a tavern. The street is lined with them all the way to Toronto
and how far north they go cannot say. Being the leading outlet there is
much traffic on it. Saw several parties of emigrants pass. Imprudent to
come so late in the season. They will have their sufferings when winter
sets in for they have not time to prepare for it. Experience has shown
me emigrants should come early in spring. I spoke with one lot. They
sailed from Liverpool to New York and thence by the Erie canal to
Oswego, avoiding the ordeal of the St Lawrence rapids. It seems strange
but it is so, the United States is Upper Canada's market. In comparison,
little freight either goes or comes by Montreal. This ought not to be.
The reason given is, that Lower Canada will not help to improve the St
Lawrence route as it would not be to her benefit.

Sept. 5--There is a plague of squirrels--black, red and grey. Bobby
keeps killing them and we have them on the table every day. Pushing the
chopping, for our next year's living depends on the size of our
clearances. Weather being cooler, work not so exhausting. Had a scare
yesterday from a bear trotting to the pond. It had its drink and fled on
seeing us.

Sept. 9--Had word from Jabez to come to town as he had a yoke of oxen
bought for me.

Sept. 10--Walked to Toronto, taking Gordon to help. Am no judge of oxen.
They cost $60. Besides them had to pay for logging-chain and an ox-sled.
Gordon spent the time in the wheelwright's shop where I bought the
sled. On Jabez telling me we would need somebody to teach us how to
handle oxen and to burn a fallow, I went to see Sloot, and bargained
with him for a week's work. On getting all that was needed for my
neighbors and myself the sled was heaped up; we walked, Sloot driving.
It was near midnight when we reached home, but Ailie and the family got
up to see the oxen by candle-light.

Sept. 11--Sunday though it was, Sloot, taking the boys to clear the way,
had to go to the stacks near the swamp for hay to feed the oxen. It was
a work of necessity. They came back in the afternoon with a small load,
for the track was rough.

Sept. 12--Sloot and all hands were up at sunrise to set fire to the
brushpiles. The day was cool with a breeze that helped the fires.
Burning the logs was next taken in hand, and being green and thick they
were slow to burn.

Sept. 13--The weather was again favorable for our work of burning the
logs but, despite a strong wind, they burned slowly and we had to keep
poking and turning them to get a hot blaze. The smoke and heat were like
to overcome me, but Sloot went ahead. He was born in the bush and all
its work is second nature to him. Washed in the pond and got to bed
late.

Sept. 14--Auld and Sloot, Allan helping, worked all night with the
logheaps, which I found this morning much reduced in size. The
logging-chains and the oxen today came into play, the partly consumed
logs being hauled to form fresh piles. By dark there was quite a
clearance.

Sept. 15--Light white frost this morning. Helping neighbors. Sun came
out on our starting to burn at Auld's but the wind blew a gale, and we
had a splendid burn.

Sept. 16--Pouring rain and glad of it, for all of us except Sloot are
dead-tired. He says the rain will wash the charred logs and make them
easier to handle.

Sept. 17--Spent the day hauling the biggest of the partly burned logs to
make a fence across the clearing. The smaller stuff we heaped up and set
on fire. Allan handles the oxen very well considering. Wanted Sloot to
stay another week, but he could not. He is a civil fellow and not
greedy. Ailie sent a queer present to his wife. Before Mrs Simmins left
she explained and showed how to secure and dry dandelion roots to make
coffee. In lifting potatoes, when a dandelion root is seen, it is pulled
carefully, or, if scarce among potatoes, dug up carefully in the fall so
as to get the entire root. The roots are washed, dried in the sun and
stored away. As wanted for use, a root or so is chopped small, roasted
in a pan until crisp, then ground, and made like ordinary coffee.

Sept. 24--All week we worked at getting crop into the fallow. After
clearing it of sticks, we used spade, grape, and rake to get it
something near level. Gordon studded a log with wooden spikes which we
dragged over the worst of it. On getting the best seedbed possible,
sowed wheat. The soil had a topdressing of charcoal cinders and ashes
that I thought would help. If the seed gives an average yield, will not
have to buy flour next year.

Sept. 26--Rained all day yesterday; at night cleared with quite a touch
of frost. Busy chopping to enlarge clearance. The young fellow who came
out with us from Scotland and got drunk at Montreal, appeared at our
door this morning. He had lived chiefly in Toronto and his appearance
showed had done no good. Wanted a job. Agreed with him to dig ditch in
the swamp, the understanding being if he got drunk he need not come
back. Leaves are turning color.

Oct. 2--Sat most of the day on front step taking in the beauty of the
trees that overhang the pond on three of its sides. I can compare them
to nothing but gigantic flowers. Steeped in the haze of a mellow sun the
sight was soothing. Nothing like this in Scotland. The birds have gone;
the swallows left in August.

Oct. 9--Been a sorrowful week. On unpacking our baggage on arrival in
the bush, found my mother's spinning-wheel was broken. Gordon managed to
mend it and I bought ten pounds of wool. This she washed, teased, and
carded, and proud she was when she sat down and began to spin the rolls
into yarn. Tuesday afternoon Ailie and Ruth went to pick wild grapes,
and the rest of us were at our work in the bush. Grannie was left alone.
She had moved her wheel to the door to sit in the sunshine, where she
could see the brightness of the trees and enjoy the calm that prevailed.
How long she span we do not know. On Ailie's return she was startled at
the sight of her bending over the wheel. She was dead. While stooping to
join a broken thread God took her. Next day buried her on a rising bit
of ground overlooking the pond. What a mother she was I alone can know.
I shall never forget her. Last evening there was to us a marvellous
display of northern lights. When daylight faded pink clouds appeared in
the sky mixed with long shooting rays of white light. The clouds changed
shape continually, but the color was always a shade of red. At times the
clouds filled the entire northeastern sky.

Oct. 10--Crying need for rain; everything dry as tinder; air full of
smoke.

Oct. 15--My worker at the ditch insisted he had to go to Toronto. Gave
him his pay and knew he would not come back, despite his promise. There
are more slaves than black men. The man of whom whiskey has got a grip
is the greater slave.

Oct. 17--Closed the house on Sunday morning and all walked to Toronto to
attend worship. Today yoked the sled to an ox, for our path to
Yonge-street is too narrow for two, in order to find settlers who had
produce to sell. Bought corn in cob, apples, pumpkins, and vegetables,
but only one bag of oats, few having threshed. Was kindly received and
learnt much. In one shanty found a shoemaker at work. He travels from
house to house and is paid by the day, his employers providing the
material. Agreed with him to pay us a visit and he gave me a list of
what to get in Toronto.

Oct. 18--Spent day in trying to make everything snug for winter.

Oct 19--Went to Toronto determined to find out whether there is no way
of compelling the man who owns the land that blocks us from Yonge-street
to open a road. First of all I called upon him, and he received me
civilly. I told him how our three families were shut in. Asked if we
would not buy his lot, he would sell the 1200 acres cheap and give us
time. Answered we could not, we had all we could manage. He thought we
were unreasonable in asking him to make a road which he did not need. It
would be of use to us but not to him. Asked him if the conditions on
which the lot was granted did not require him to open a road? Replied,
that was like many other laws the legislature made, and which were
disregarded everywhere in the province. When I said, since it is law it
could be enforced, he smiled and said there was no danger of that. Was
pleased to hear of our settlement behind his land and hoped it would
help to bring him customers. Turning from his door, I made straight for
a lawyer's office, to make sure whether the owner of vacant land could
not be forced to open a road. The lawyer, an oldish man, listened to my
story and told me to give up the idea of compelling the making of the
road we needed. You are a stranger and ignorant of how matters stand.
The law is straight enough, that whenever the government grants a lot,
the receiver must do his part to open a road, but the law has become a
dead letter. Two-thirds of the granted land is held by men who have
favor with the government and who are holding to sell. Did you ever hear
of Peter Russel? When a surveying party came in, he found out from their
reports where the lots of best land were, and made out deeds to himself.
'I, Peter Russel, lieutenant-governor, etc., do grant to you, Peter
Russel,' such and such lots. If you sued the gentleman you visited this
forenoon you would lose. The court officials all have lots they expect
to turn into money and would throw every obstacle in the way. Should
your case come to trial, it would be before a judge who is a relative,
and who holds patents for thousands of acres of wild land. The condition
in their titles about cutting out roads, is like those that require a
house to be built and so many acres of land in crop before a patent is
issued. There are thousands of settlers worse off than you are, for you
say you have a sled-path to your house. The lawyer spoke candidly and
showed his sincerity and goodwill by refusing to take the fee I offered.

Oct. 20--A real cold day; fine for chopping and the sound of trees
falling was heard every hour. Wheat is growing finely. Had a talk with
Auld and Brodie at night and agreed we would improve the sled-track to
Yonge-street, seeing there was no prospect of the owner doing anything.

Oct. 22--Surprised by a message that there was a bull-plow waiting for
me at the corner-house on Yonge-street. Jabez had told Mr Bambray about
the swamp, and he sent the plow to help to bring it into cultivation.

Oct. 24--Took the plow out to the swamp, which I found pretty dry at one
side. Yoked the oxen to it and I plowed all afternoon. Felt good to grip
the stilts once more.

Oct. 29--Spent three days on the sledroad and the three families joined
in the work. Cut a great many roots, filled hollows, and felled trees
whose branches obstructed. It is now fairly smooth but far too narrow
for a wagon.

Oct. 30--Surprised by a visit from Jabez, who came on horseback. Said he
had a chance to give Gordon a few weeks' training with a carpenter. He
was not now busy himself, as the shipping season was over. Brought Ailie
a basket of fresh water herring. Left after dinner.

Oct. 31--Gordon started early for Toronto, with his bundle over his
shoulder. We shall miss him sadly. In the evening our neighbors came and
we held Halloween as heartily as if we had been in Ayrshire.

Nov. 1--Bright and frosty. Took the oxen back to the swamp; found there
was not frost enough to interfere and turned over a few ridges, and cast
waterfurs leading to the ditch.

Nov. 2--White frosts fetch rain in this country and a cold rain fell all
day. Sawing and splitting the logs we had set aside for firewood.

Nov. 3--The rain turned to snow during the night and there are fully
four inches. The youngsters hitched an ox to the sled and started off,
shouting and laughing, for Yonge-street to have their first sleigh
drive. Came home in great glee in time for supper. Robbie says he wants
a sleigh bell.

Nov. 5--Snow gone; clear and fine. Chopping down trees.

Nov. 6--A peaceful autumn day. Heard a robin and wondered how it came to
be left behind by its comrades. Had a walk in the bush in the afternoon
thinking of mother and the land I shall never forget.

Nov. 7--Shoemaker arrived. A great talker. Tells of families where the
children had to stay in all winter for lack of boots.

Nov. 12--A week of steady clearing of the land; we shall have a great
burning in the spring. Have had hard frosts every night. Going to
Yonge-street to see if I could get oats for the oxen, for the swamp hay
is not nourishing and they are young and growing, found provisions
remarkably plenty and cheap, especially pork. Bargained for a two-year
old steer which the farmer promised not to kill until steady frost set
in. Thankful we did not go farther into the bush. It is a blessing to be
near older settlers who have a surplus to sell. There was a smoky haze
over the bush today, and the sun shone with a subdued brightness; very
still with a mellow warmth. Was told it was the Indian summer.

Nov. 20--Had four days of Indian summer and then a drenching rain from
the east, which stopped chopping. A black frost today, dark and bleak.
Had a letter from Gordon yesterday, who is happy in learning so much
that is new to him. He was at Bambray's for dinner last Sabbath and
spent an evening at Dunlop's. He will make friends wherever he goes.

December 3--There has been nothing worth setting down. Have had a long
spell of grey, cloudy days, which just suited felling trees and
underbrushing. Have got our patch of wheat well fenced in, not to keep
cattle out, there are none near us, but to help to keep a covering of
snow on the wheat. Bobbie trapped a coon that haunted the barn and it
made fine eating. He says the pelt will make a neck-wrap for his mother.

Dec. 7--Went to get the steer I had bargained for. The farmer suggested
instead of butchering the beast and hauling the carcase it would be
easier to drive it on foot and kill it at home, which I did.

Dec. 8--Killed the steer, which dressed well. Auld and Brodie took away
their portions to salt down, but Ailie followed Mrs Bambray's advice.
After the pieces are hard frozen she will pack them in snow.

Dec. 10--Began to snow gently yesterday and continues. There are now
about six inches.

Dec. 11--Bitterly cold; never felt the like. What Burns calls cranreuch
cauld gets into the bones, but this frost seems to squeeze body and
bones, pinching and biting the exposed skin.

Dec. 13--Ailie is never at a loss. On Mrs Brodie telling the children
woke at night crying from cold, she had no blankets to give her. Having
sheets we brought from Scotland she took two and placed as an inside
lining the skins of the squirrels Robbie had killed. Simmins had taught
him how to tan and give them a soft finish. Brodie and Auld's houses are
cold because they only half chinked them. Mrs Auld said the blankets
were frozen where the breath struck them and the loaf of bread could be
sawn as if it were a block of wood. Both now believe Canada's cold is
not to be trifled with and are scraping moss off the trees to caulk
between the outside logs the first warm spell.

Dec. 14--The frost holds. Worked all day with Allan. Does not feel cold
in the bush. The trees break the wind that is so piercing in the
clearings.

Dec. 15--Milder; in the sun at noon almost warm. Got out ox-sled and
went with Brodie along Yonge-street to buy pork. Bought three carcases.
People are kindly. Have never called at a house where we were not
invited to return and pay a family visit.

Dec. 19--Have had a three day snap of frost, Either getting used to the
cold or are adapting ourselves to meet it, for do not feel the
discomfort we did. Ruth going to the ox-stable without putting a wrap
over her head got her cheeks and ears frozen. Robbie trapped a hare.
Pleads for a gun. Ailie will give him a surprise New Year's morning.

Dec. 24--The snow helps greatly in hauling fallen trees and logs. Give
them their own time, and oxen beat horses in handling difficult loads.
Gordon came walking in this afternoon, quite unexpectedly, for we did
not look for him until this day week. He says Christmas is the big day
in Toronto, and not New Year's day. His master had shut his shop for a
week. He gave him a deerskin jerkin as a Christmas present.

Dec. 27--Gordon has been busy making snowshoes. His first pair was for
Ruth, who can now walk in them. Snowed all day; not cold. He has taught
her to ride one of the oxen.

Dec. 28--A thaw, much needed to settle the snow, which was getting too
deep. Youngsters shovelled a strip on the pond and made a fine slide.

Dec. 31--Made preparation to keep Hogmanay, inviting our two neighbors.
Had built a big fire, with a beech back-log, so heavy that an ox had to
haul it to the door, and put a smaller one on top, while in front split
wood blazed, and made the shanty so light that no candle was needed. The
young folk had a great night of it, and braved the frost to go to the
stable door and sing their old Hogmanay rhymes. The feast was plain as
plain could be, but contented and merry hearts care not for dainties.

January 1, 1826--All gathered again in our shanty after dinner, when we
had a fellowship meeting to thank God for all his mercies, and surely,
when I review all the dangers he has led us through, and the mercies he
has bestowed on us during the year that has gone, we have good cause to
adore him. Gave Star and Bright an extra feed of oats.

Jany. 2--Ailie had just sat down after clearing the dinner dishes away,
when Ruth came running in crying she heard sleighbells coming up our
road. I went out and was astonished when a sleigh came in sight, the
horse dashing the snow into powder breast high. It was Mr Dunlop and his
wife, who had come to pay us a New Year's call. They stayed an hour and
it was a happy one, for Mr Dunlop is a heartsome man. Was greatly taken
with the improvements we had made. His wife brought a package of tea for
Ailie. She made them a cup of dandelion coffee which, after their drive,
they relished with her oatmeal cakes. In parting took me aside and told
me if I ran short of cash to come to him. He is a friend. After they
were gone, Robbie and Allan came home. They had to have a tramp in the
bush to try the gun their mother had got for Robbie. They brought in
three partridge and two hares, and were in great spirits. Gordon had
bought the gun from an English lad who had come to Canada with the
notion that it was full of wild beasts and Indians. He found he had no
need of it.

Jany. 4--Have had a heavy snowstorm with a gale of wind. The snow here
is not flaky, but fine and powdery, fills the air so you cannot see
ahead, and sifts through every crevice. Thankful when the blast died
down. Mrs Auld declares if the summer heat and the winter cauld were
carded through ane anither Canada would have a grand climate. The two
extremes are indeed most trying.

Jany 5--Work in the bush stopped by the snow, is so deep that when a
tree is felled half is buried.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE EPISODE OF TILLY


Jany 7--All were in bed last night when I was aroused by a knock at the
door. Thought one of my neighbors needed help, but on opening was
surprised to see it was Jabez. Excused himself for alarming us by saying
his errand was a matter of life or death. A negro girl, who had fallen
into evil hands at Buffalo, had escaped to Canada and was followed by
desperate men trying to retake her. An attempt had been made to kidnap
her from the family that sheltered her in Toronto. She had to be hid
until the search was given up, and he could think of no place so safe as
with ourselves. Mr Bambray asked us, in God's name, to take care of her
for a while. 'Where is she?' I asked. 'In the sleigh at the door.' I
told him to fetch her in, or she might freeze. He lifted her in, for she
was numb. It was a bitter night. Laying aside her wraps, we saw, for
Ailie and the whole family were now looking on, a mulatto of perhaps
sixteen years of age. Alice and Ruth chafed her hands and feet to
restore her circulation, while Ailie was getting a hot drink ready.
Looking at the poor child I guessed her miserable story and told Jabez
we would keep her. After getting warmed he drove off.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here I have to break into the master's diary in order to give what
happened afterwards, which he did not write down. The girl, who said her
name was Tilly, got quite reconciled to us next day. She was from
Kentucky, had been sold to a saloonkeeper at Black Rock, and rescued.
She shuddered whenever she spoke of him. Passed from one friendly hand
to another she reached Toronto, and was living quietly there as a
servant. One evening there was a rap at the door and she went to answer.
On opening it she beheld the fellow who claimed to own her. She
screamed. Putting his hand over her mouth he lifted her to a sleigh,
which drove off. Two passersby, who saw what happened, ran after the
sleigh and on its halting at a tavern, one hurried off for a constable
while the other kept watch. Entering the tavern they demanded the girl,
and under threat of arrest the fellow had to let her go. If he had not,
the crowd in the barroom would have piled on to him, for in Toronto
Yankee slavehunters are detested. Mr Bambray, on being told of what had
occurred, made her case his own. He consulted Jabez who suggested
burying her in the bush with the master's family until the search was
given up. Tilly was modest and eager to help, and at worship showed she
had a beautiful voice. The day passed quietly and so did Sunday. The
master had meant to go to Toronto to church, being the first Sunday
after New Year's day, but the frost was too intense for an ox-drive.
Tilly had a great collection of hymns, and in the afternoon we sat and
listened. It was a peaceful Sabbath and we went to bed happy and feeling
secure. I was lying awake, thinking of the poor slave-girl so
unexpectedly thrown among us, when I thought I heard the crunching of
the frozen snow under horse's feet and sleighrunners. I jumped out of
bed and looking through the window that faced our road, saw a sleigh
with two men. I hurried down stairs and wakened the master. He had just
got on his feet when the door was forced in with a crash. A tall fellow
entered, whom we could see distinctly, for the fire was glowing bright.
'I have come for my nigger, and it will be worse for you if you make a
fuss.' Without a word, the master rushed at the fellow and was thrusting
him out of the door, when he used a trick, doubtless learned in a
hundred barroom fights, of thrusting his foot forward and tripping the
master, who fell on his back. In a flash the fellow had him by the
throat, forcing back his head with his left hand while his right fumbled
under his coat. I guessed he was after his bowie-knife. I gripped his
arm and gave it a twist that made him let out a yell. Jumping straight
up, he made to grab me, when Allan, who had just appeared, swung out his
right arm and dealt him a terrific blow on the face. He fell like a
tree that had got its last cut. The other man now looked in, and seeing
his comrade insensible and bleeding, cried out to us, 'You will hang for
this!' 'Take the brute away and begone,' shouted the master, 'or you
will answer for this if there be law in Canada.' Taking hold of the
fallen man he dragged him to the sleigh. Lifting his head in first, he
got into the sleigh and pulled the rest of the body into the box.
Hurriedly pitching a robe over him he drove off, afraid we would arrest
him. Just as the sleigh got on to the road, there was a shot above our
heads, it was Robbie who had loaded his gun and fired out of the window.
As it was only shot, it probably did no harm, but showed the driver we
had firearms. The excitement over, the master staggered to a bench and
fell down. Examining his throat we saw how the fellow had squeezed it so
tight that his fingernails had torn the flesh, and the thrust backwards
had strained the muscles of the neck. We got him into bed and the
mistress and Alice sat up all night, applying cloths wrung out of hot
water to ease the piercing pain. None of us slept much, and Tilly was
greatly excited. I should have mentioned, when the affray was over, and
I am sure it did not last five minutes, she went to Allan and kissed the
hand that had knocked down her persecutor. We talked at breakfast over
what we should do next, when it was agreed I should go to Toronto with
word of what had happened. On reaching Yonge-street I got a ride on the
first sleigh that came along. Jabez was astounded at my news and took
me to see Mr Bambray and others interested in Tilly. Jabez at once
started to find out what had become of the fellow, and all agreed that
nothing should be decided until he reported. He was not long in getting
trace of him and when he came in after dinner it was to tell the bird
had flown. Fearing arrest, his face bandaged, he had been lifted into a
long sleigh, and lying in it as a bed, had been driven westward. 'He
will get to Hamilton this afternoon,' said Jabez, 'and is likely by
sunset to be safe on Yankee soil.' It was suggested Jabez should go next
morning and arrange with the master to keep Tilly for a few weeks. 'Will
the fellow, who knows now where she is, not plan a second attempt?' 'No
danger,' said Jabez, 'the doctor who dressed his face told me he would
not be able to go out for weeks, and was disfigured for life. He damned
the Scotties who had done it.' When Jabez told how he had received his
injuries, the doctor, an Englishman, got hotly indignant. 'Had I known,
the fellow would have been now in prison.' He would see his friend, the
Chief Justice, to have him outlawed. I stayed with Jabez overnight and
our drive in the morning was most enjoyable. There was no wind and just
frost enough to make the air crisp, the sun shone on the snow until it
sparkled, while the sleighing was splendid. Jabez had taken one of his
best horses and the swiftness of the drive was exhilarating. The road
was crowded with farmers' teams heading for Toronto, Jabez knew them all
and they all knew him. One question troubled him, and that was, How the
Buffalo scoundrel had come to know where Tilly was hid? To satisfy a
surmise, he drew up at the tavern that had been opened opposite our road
to question its owner, who frankly gave the desired information. The two
men stopped at the tavern to get warmed and had several drinks. One of
them said he was looking for his daughter, who had run away from home.
He had traced her, he thought, by being told a man and a young girl had
been seen driving up Yonge-street Friday night. The tavern-keeper said
he saw such a couple turn into the byroad in front of his place, and
wondered at it, for it was rare to see anybody enter that road. Question
followed question and the men learned all they needed to find the house,
and to attack it. On taking a parting drink, the tall fellow exclaimed,
'I have got her.' Reaching home we found all well except the master,
whose neck was still swollen and painful. He was lying on the bench near
the fire. Jabez explained his errand and the message he brought. The
master pulled the head of Jabez close to his mouth, for he could only
whisper, and said, 'You tell Mr Bambray that what happened Sabbath night
made me an abolitionist, and the girl will stay here until she wants to
leave. Is not that your mind, Ailie?' 'You have spoken what was in my
own mind, Andrew.' Tilly, who was standing by, burst into tears, and
clasping the mistress by the neck kissed her saying, 'I will serve you
good.' She was the most grateful creature I ever met. Jabez stayed
until after dinner, and, on leaving, promised to give us a hand when it
was time to burn our brushpiles. Tilly made herself useful not only in
our home but those of Brodie and Auld and proved to be a real help.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jany 16--Thankful I can again bend my head without pain. The woods are a
glorious sight. It snowed yesterday morning. Before dark the snow turned
to rain, which froze as it fell, encrusting everything. On the sun
coming out bright this morning the trees sparkled as if made of crystal
and the branches of the evergreens hung in masses of radiant white. So
Alice described them, and we all agreed a sight so beautiful we never
saw.

Jany 17--Robbie and Allan set off on snowshoes for a day's hunting and
came back in the afternoon carrying a deer, which they had run down,
being enabled to do so by the crust on the snow breaking under the poor
animal's hoofs. There are more than men hunting deer. Last night we
heard the wolves in full cry as they were chasing them.

Jany. 21--Astonished by a visit from Mr and Mrs Bambray. They visited
all the houses and seemed pleased by what they saw. Had a long talk with
him about how the province is being governed. Mrs Bambray brought
clothes for Tilly. The thaw we have had has lowered the snow, and
chopping down trees has been going on.

Jany 22--The day being moderate and the sleighing splendid drove to
Toronto, the oxen going faster than a man could walk. Sought to see the
minister, who accepted certificates of Ailie and myself. Sacrament is
March 26.

Jany. 25--Visited the farmer from whom I bought the steer. We had a
hearty welcome. Ailie much taken with their stove and its oven, and
curious about Canadian ways of housekeeping. Ruth was given a kitten.

Jany 27--Great snowstorm.

Jany 28--Quite mild this morning, a warm wind from the south. Snow
melting. At noon there was a sudden change of the wind to the northwest,
which rose to a tempest, overturning trees and making most doleful
sounds as it swept through the woods, where it broke off branches by the
thousand. Became piercingly cold. Such quick changes cannot be healthy.

Jany 30--More snow with strong east wind.

Feby. 9--After ten days of stormy weather, today is fine and bright. The
snow is over three feet on the level. Impossible to work in the bush.
Gordon is preparing for sugaring, making spouts and buckets. I have to
get a kettle to make potash and will buy one now, for it will serve for
boiling sap.

Feby 14--Rain, snow sinking fast.

Feby 18--Went with the three boys to Toronto and bought potash kettles.
They cost $12.

Feby 24--Sun is gaining strength and days are lengthening. Can see the
snow wasting in the sun. In the shade, freezing hard. Are doing good
work in the bush.

Feby 26--Snowing thick and fast, but not cold.

Feby 28--Sky without a cloud and mild. Gordon tapped a tree or two, but
there was no sap.

March 6--Roused by a hallo so hearty that nobody except Jabez could
utter it. The fine weather had made him tired of the town and recalled
the sugar-time of his youth. He picked out the maples to be tapped,
those most sheltered and facing the sun, and quickly their bark was
bored and spouts inserted. In the afternoon there was a fair run. By
that time the large kettle had been slung and the fire started. It was a
big play for the youngsters, and their shouting, when Jabez poured sap
on the snow and it turned to candy, might have been heard a mile away.

March 11--Jabez left, taking as part of his spoil a jar of syrup and a
lot of cakes of sugar. Under his teaching Ailie quickly learned to sugar
off, and did it over the kitchen fire in the biggest pot. Sent cakes as
presents to Mrs Bambray and Mrs Dunlop.

March 12--All tired after the week's sugar-making. Surprising what a
quantity was made, due to the Aulds and Brodies helping, who got their
share.

March 18--Have had no sugar-weather this week; frosty with strong winds,
and some snow. Allan, with help of Mr Auld, began hauling boards from
sawmill, which we will need for barns.

March 20--Gordon awakened us by shouting 'A sugar snow.' There had been
a light shower of it during the night, and the air was soft. Holes were
rebored and there was a fine run of sap. Likely the last, for there is
now hard frost.

March 25--Have made preparations for the sacrament. Weather has been
fickle, sometimes snow, then rain, but always blowy with cold nights.

March 26--Fair overhead but sleighing heavy. Got to Toronto in time and
had a solemn and, I hope, a profitable season. Recalling past occasions,
Ailie was much affected on taking the cup in her hand. She was anxious
about there being no word from Scotland. Before leaving Toronto I went
to the postmaster and got a letter. It was from her sister, whose
husband had a rented farm at Lochwinnoch. They have decided to follow us
to Canada, and ask that I look out a farm for them. They hope to have
over a thousand dollars after paying their passage. When we got home
Robbie's news was that he had seen a robin.

March 27--Gladdened, when I woke to hear the sound of birds. The robin
here is not the Scottish redbreast, being much larger and with a
different note. People I spoke to at church yesterday said we are having
an unusually late season. I am weary of the sight of the snow, which is
now wasting in the sun. Heard frogs at a distance last night. The long
winter is a serious offset to farming in Canada.

April 3--Jabez with Sloot came this morning to start burning our fallow,
and before dark we had made great progress. There is enough snow and ice
left to make it easy for the oxen to haul logs.

April 8--By ourselves once more; the burning and the making of potash
finished yesterday. There is now clearance enough on all three lots to
make sure of raising sufficient crop to keep us, so it will not be so
much a work of life and death to keep at the felling of trees. Chopping
them is most laborious, but burning them is worse--as much as flesh and
blood can bear. The burning we had in the fall was to get a patch of
land cleared for sowing. This time we were prepared to save the ashes.
Gordon set up three leaches on the edge of the pond, and as the logs
were burned the ashes were gathered and hauled by ox-sled to fill them.
Ramming the ashes into the leaches as solid as possible and then pouring
water upon them fell to me and the women, the men attending to the
burning, the raking of the ashes together, and hauling them. After
soaking all night, or longer, the leaches are tapped, when the lye runs
into a trough, made by hollowing as big a pine as we could find. From
the trough the lye is dipped into the kettle, under which a fierce fire
had to be kept. As the lye boiled, the water in it passed off in clouds
of steam, more lye being poured in to keep it full. By-and-by a sticky
mass could be felt at the bottom of the kettle, which was ladled into
cast iron coolers, and became solid. This is called black salts, is
barreled, and shipped to Britain, where it is in great demand. The
quantity of lye needed to make a hundred-weight of black-salts
astonished me. I got ten cents a pound for what we made and that will
keep us in provisions until we have our own wheat to take to mill.

April 9--All glad of the Sabbath rest. Warm, the soft maples red with
buds.

April 15--Been busy all week, mostly in clearing and levelling the
burned land for sowing. Sowed two bushels of oats this afternoon. Drying
winds and a hot sun.

April 20--The rain needed to start grain came last night. Moist and warm
today with rapid growth.

April 22--Planted potatoes. Ailie and Alice getting the garden stuff in.

April 26--Wonderful growth; nothing like it in Scotland. There is no
spring here; the jump is from winter to summer. Our bridle-path to
Yonge-street is so soft that oxen cannot be put on it. Gordon goes back
to Toronto on Monday to join the tradesman he was with in the fall, and
who has sent for him. He will have to walk, for Yonge-street, I am told,
is a chain of bog-holes.

May 13--Have had changeable weather; rather too dry and a few cold
nights. The standing bush keeps frost off the braird, which could not
look better. Busy preparing logs for building barns; we are all working
together. Three will be needed. Except for the ground logs we are using
cedar, which is light to handle and easy to hew. Mrs Bambray sent a
bundle of apple-trees and another of berry bushes. All planted and look
as if they have rooted.

June 3--Gordon along with Sloot came this evening to help in raising the
barns. Planted corn today; an entirely new crop to us. The heads will be
food for our table and the stalks the oxen are fond of. The winter-wheat
is in the shot-blade. Went back to the swamp and found what had been
plowed in fine shape. Seeded down with oats. I hope for a good return.

June 14--Barns are finished. Much easier to build than were our
shanties. Using block and tackle in hoisting was a great help. Wheat is
beginning to color. Robbie saw a deer browsing in the oats, got his gun,
and shot it. Deer flesh is dry any time but at this season is poor
eating. Potatoes and corn have got their first hoeing.

June 27--A dry hot spell. Scotland gets too much rain; Canada too
little. Wheat is ripening too fast. It will be fit to cut on Monday.

July 8--Wheat is safe; drying winds and a hot sun made it quickly fit to
lead. In Scotland it might have been out three weeks before fit to
stack. Fine quality and abundant yield. Will not need to buy more flour.

July 12--Have had a plentiful rain that has saved the crops, for oats
are filling. I answered my sister's letter at once, with directions how
to come. Have spent any time I could spare in trying to find a lot for
them. Gordon walked in this morning with a letter mailed from Greenock,
stating they were to take ship that week. As they may be here next week
must decide quickly on a home for them.

July 15--Allan and myself have been on the trudge for three days,
looking for a lot. Finally decided on one with a clearance of nearly ten
acres and a shanty with an outbuilding. It is far north on Yonge-street,
but all nearer Toronto were held at prices they could not afford. The
owner leaves on account of sickness and sold the lot with its
betterments and growing crop for $600.

July 22--Left home on Monday to wait in Toronto for arrival of my
brother-in-law and family. They came on the 19th, sound and hearty. As I
had directed them, they took a ship for New York and thence by the
Hudson and Erie canal to Oswego, where they got the steamer for Toronto.
Thus they avoided the hardships of the St Lawrence route and saved a
fortnight in time. Looking at the map, I can see New York is Toronto's
nearest ocean port. The teams got started early in the afternoon, but
the road was rough and the horses had to walk all the way. It was
growing dark when we reached the shanty, from whose one window gleamed a
light, and at the door were Ailie, Alice, and Robbie, who had spent two
days cleaning and making the place as decent as possible. A table of
boards, with benches at its side, was spread with supper. A joyous hour
was cut short by the teamsters crying out horses were fed and they were
ready to return. They dropped us at the end of our lane.

July 26--Finished cutting the oats on the swamp while green and stacked
them. There is a fair catch of grass.

Aug. 4--All the grain is ripe; cutting is slow on account of the stumps.
Today there were four of us busy with the hook. Oats are not as plump as
in Scotland; they fill too quickly.



CHAPTER IX.

THE AFTER YEARS


Further extracts from the master's diary would not help the story I am
telling you, for it becomes such a record as many farmers keep,--when
they sowed and reaped, what they sold and bought. Having completed the
account of his first year's experience in the bush for his friend in
Scotland, he ceased noting down his daily happenings, which for him no
longer had the interest of novelty. The forest had been sufficiently
subdued to enable him to gain a living from the land, and his life
partook more and more of the routine of Canadian farmers. He was,
however, much more successful than the majority of them, due to his
energy and skill. His first decided start was due to the existence of
that swamp whose discovery filled him with dismay. The forage he got off
it enabled him to start keeping stock long before he otherwise could
have done. In the fall of 1826 he bought a cow and a couple of two-year
old heifers, and the following spring there was enough milk to enable
the mistress to make a few cheese. These gave the farm a reputation
which established a steady demand at a paying price. More cows were
got, no grain was sold, everything was fed, and the master, with the
help of the mistress, led in dairying. In Ayrshire she had the name of
making the best cheese in the parish and her skill stood the family in
good stead in Canada. That second summer the entire swamp was brought
into cultivation, and it proved to be the best land on the farm for
grass. When other pastures were dried up, cattle had a bite on the
swamp, for so it continued to be called long after it had lost all the
features of a swamp. The clearing of the forest went on steadily, so
that each fall saw a larger yield of grain and roots. In the fifth year
the master was rejoiced to find many of the stumps could be dragged out
by oxen, and a field secured on which he could use the long-handled plow
as in Scotland. An unlooked for result of the draining of the swamp and
the sweeping away of the forest in every direction was the gradual
drying up of the pond. A more striking instance was told me by a settler
who was led to choose a lot near lake Simcoe on account of a brook
prattling across it and which reminded him of Scotland. In twenty years
the brook was gone, the plow turning furrows on its bed. The one great
drawback to the progress of the three families was the lack of a road to
Yonge-street. In winter there was little difficulty for then snow made a
highway, but the rest of the year no wheeled vehicle could go over it.
At one of the sessions of the legislature, when the estimates for roads
and bridges was up, the owner of the 1200 acre block of land that was
the cause of our trouble, made a pathetic appeal for a grant to give an
outlet to three of the thriftiest and most deserving families he had any
acquaintance with, and his appeal resulted in a hundred dollars being
voted. Two years later, on being questioned by the master about the
grant, the honorable gentleman (for he had Hon. before his name) told
him he had drawn the money but there was no condition as to the time he
should start the work. In 1830 there set in an unprecedented influx of
immigrants, who wanted land. The honorable gentleman saw his opportunity
and sold every acre of the 1200. Those who bought had to cut out the
road, and making it passable for travel was hard work for years, on
account of the size of the stumps and of many parts having to be
corduroyed.

With the coming of these new neighbors, a school became necessary and in
it services were held on Sunday. The master sought the help of a
Presbyterian minister in Toronto. He came once; on finding how rude
everything was, he declined to return. A North of Ireland family was no
more successful with an Anglican minister. He had newly come out from a
cathedral city in the south of England and was shocked to find the log
school had not a robing-room. The end was that a Methodist circuit-rider
took in our settlement in his rounds, which resulted in a majority of
those who attended his services uniting with the Methodist church. The
ministers who came from the Old Country in those early days were
singularly unfit for new settlements. The Anglican on landing assumed he
was the only duly accredited clergyman, and was offended at his claim
being slighted, while his feelings were jarred by the lack of conditions
he considered essential to the proper conducting of worship. The
Presbyterian ministers were more amenable to the changes, yet their
ideals were of the parishes they had known in Scotland--a church, a
manse, a glebe, tiends, and a titled patron. The effects of State
established churches in the Old Land were thus felt in the backwoods,
which was shown more markedly in the strife to reproduce State churches
in Canada. I look back with distress to the bitter controversy which
went on from year to year over the possession of the revenue from the
clergy reserves. The cause of strife was not altogether the money, but
the proof of superiority the possession of the fund would give. With
many it was as much pride as covetousness. When we recall the energy
that characterized the agitation over the clergy reserves, I think of
what the same effort would have accomplished had it been directed to
evangelize the province.

Another agitation, less prolonged but fiercer while it lasted, was that
which reached its head in the rebellion year. As was unavoidable, the
rule of the province on its being organized, fell into the hands of the
people who first came. They divided its public offices among themselves
and managed its affairs. In time these first-comers were outnumbered by
immigrants, but there was no change--the first-comers held to the reins.
Had they used their power in the public interest, that would have been
submitted to, but they did not--they abused their power for their own
interests. They multiplied offices, increased salaries, grabbed the
public lands, and laid the foundation of a national debt by borrowing
money. There were instances of stealing of public funds, with no
punishment following. Farmers became restless under an iniquitous
administration of public lands. The discontent, which was as wide as the
province, was taken advantage of by men who designed Canada should
become a republic, and began an agitation to bring that about. Men, like
the master, who ardently wished reforms, were repelled when they found
the main object of the leaders of the agitation was the separation of
Canada from Britain and would have nothing to do with them. The first
time the master met Mackenzie he took a dislike to him, perceiving his
overweening vanity, his habit of contradiction, and his lack of
judgment. He said he was a specimen of the unpleasant type of Scot who
meddled and denounced to attract attention and make himself of
consequence. When he saw him shaping a rebellion he declared it would be
a ridiculous failure, that no such whitrick of a creature could lead in
the people's cause. There were grievous wrongs to be righted, but he
held the advocacy of the changes called for by such men as Mackenzie was
a hindrance instead of a help to their being secured. Brodie's oldest
son was somewhat conceited, and had come to believe he was born to be
something else than a farmer. I think the isolation of farm life
conduces to develop that notion. The boy brought little in contact with
his fellows, does not have his pretensions rubbed down, and comes to
think he is superior to them. I have seen many such, who thinking they
were business men, or would shine in some public capacity, or were
fitted to adorn a profession, made shipwreck of their lives in leaving
the plow. Hugh was one of those. A good fellow and a good worker with
his father, he began by frequenting corner-stores at night and before
long considered himself an authority in politics and was ready to argue
in a long-winded and dreary fashion with any who disputed his crude
assertions. Taken notice of by leaders in the agitation going on,
appointed to committees and consulted as to plans on foot, he became
carried away and neglected his home duties. When the explosion took
place in December, 1837, he was one of those who met at Montgomery's
tavern. A decisive blow could have been struck had the men there
gathered marched to Toronto and seized the guns stored in the city hall.
There was no man to take the lead. Mackenzie vapored and complained of
others, formed plans one hour to change the next, and demonstrated the
weakness of his shallow nature. Seeing this, farmers sincerely desirous
of a change in the rule of the province, left for their homes, and the
handful left were routed without trouble. Hugh was among those made
prisoners and placed in Toronto jail. His father was in great distress
and implored me to help to get him released. My stay in Toronto had
given a knowledge of its officials and I told him if he was willing to
pay it might be done. We went to the home of the prosecutor for the
crown. The father told his tale and, in piteous terms, begged the return
of his son to his distracted mother. Perceiving what he said had no
effect, I took the gentleman aside and told him the father might give
cash bail. 'How much is he ready to deposit?' was asked. I thought he
had $25 in his pocket. 'Not enough,' he replied. 'The lad can be
indicted for treason which means hanging.' 'You cannot get evidence
against him on that charge. Say what you want?' Turning to Brodie he
said if he would deposit ten pounds, and enter into the proper
recognizances he would give him an order to the jailor for his son's
release. Without a word of demur the father counted out $40 of his
painfully gathered savings and the chancellor scribbled the order. On
reaching the prison the jailor raised objections. It was now dark and
after hours and the lad had been boarded four days and the fees of the
constables who had arrested him had to be paid. I cut him short by
asking 'How much?' The fellow eyed the father as if calculating the
extent of his ability to pay. 'Two pound ten,' he said. 'Nonsense,' I
replied, 'farmers have not that much money to give away; say one pound
ten and I will advance it for him.' He nodded and I passed the money.
Going upstairs he threw open a door, and we saw in the hall, or rather
corridor, a crowd of men. They were silent with the exception of one who
was denouncing his being held as an outrage, for he was as loyal as the
governor himself. The rest of them were enduring their condition in
sullen silence. Among them were industrious farmers who had warrants
issued against them because they had been known to threaten officials in
the land-office for not getting patents for the lots they had paid for,
farmers arrested on informations lodged by men who owed them, others by
officials who expected to share in their property when confiscated, and
barroom politicians who had expressed their opinions too freely about
those in power. A few, however, were thoughtless young fellows who had
been drawn to visit Montgomery's tavern from mere curiosity and love of
excitement. The room was lighted dimly by two lamps hung on the walls;
the heat was stifling, the odor sickening. We looked among the throng
for Hugh. His father pulled my sleeve and pointed to a far corner, where
he was squat on the floor with his face to the wall in the stupor of
despair. The jailer jostled his way to him, and grasped his collar. Hugh
turned his face in agonized apprehension of his fate, for he told us
afterwards he expected to be hanged, and that he was wanted. Dragging
him to where we stood the poor fellow collapsed at sight of his father
and fell on his neck. Hastening downstairs the jailer opened the wicket
and we were on the street. Hugh was dazed when he saw the jailer did not
follow 'Where are we going, father?' 'Going home.' 'Have I not to go
back to prison?' 'No, you are free.' Hugh broke down and cried. 'We will
have supper and then we will hitch up.' 'No, no,' sobbed Hugh, 'let us
go home now.' On shaking hands with them as the horse started, I saw
poor Hugh was thuroly humbled and penitent. It was not for a brief time,
for on going home he proved what his boyhood had promised, an obedient
son and steady worker. 'He never has now a word of complaint about what
is set on the table,' whispered his mother to me.

This ridiculous attempt at a revolution had one good and one bad effect.
The good, was a change in the government that made conditions more
tolerable; the bad, was in giving color to fastening upon Liberals the
stigma of disloyalty. The leaders in the attempted rising had declared
for separation from Britain, and those of them who escaped across the
frontier became avowed annexationists. What they were the Tories
asserted all Liberals were and the maintenance of British connection
depended upon their being kept out of office. The many years that have
passed have made that pretension traditional, and whenever there is an
election, I hear the charge of disloyalty imputed to Liberals and the
claim to exclusive loyalty made by their opponents.

The passing years have wrought a marvellous change in the face of the
country. Our drive up Yonge-street in 1825 was like a boat tracing a
narrow channel of the sea. On either hand was a continuous wall of
forest, and where an attempt had been made to push it back the uncarved
bush projected like rocky promontories. The houses passed at wide
intervals were shanties; the clearances in which they were set cluttered
with stumps. How different now. Handsome residences have replaced the
log-shanties, the bush has become a graceful fringe in the background of
smooth, well-tilled fields. Like the ocean which keeps no trace of the
keels that have furrowed its wastes, these beautiful fields are the
speechless bequest of the men and women who redeemed them from savagery
at the cost of painful privations, of exhausting, never ceasing toil, of
premature decay of strength. They fought and overcame and succeeding
generations enjoy the fruits of their labors--fruits they barely lived
to taste. These were the men and women who made Canada, the founders of
its prosperity, the true Makers of the nation to which it has grown. It
is common for politicians and their newspapers to steal for their
party-idols credit to which they have no claim, by styling them the
Makers of Canada, but no suppression of facts, no titles the crown is
misled to confer, no Windsor uniforms, no strutting in swords and cocked
hats, no declarations and resolutions of parliament, no blare of party
conventions, no lies graven on marble, nor statues of bronze, can change
the truth, that the True Makers of Canada were those who, in obscurity
and poverty, made it with ax and spade, with plow and scythe, with sweat
of face and strength of arm.

I would not imply that being first is necessarily a merit in itself.
There must be a beginning to everything and to magnify the man who
felled the first tree or reared the first shanty is no honor if
unaccompanied by moral worth. I have seen many townships come into
existence and have known the men who first went into them, and my sorrow
is, that so few of them are worthy of remembrance. Recognizing this, I
pay no honor to a man who boasts he was the first to do this or that,
and who, though first, threw away his opportunity to benefit himself and
those who followed. I am tired of men who posture as pioneers and
founders and who have nothing else to claim. Unless they also had moral
worth, strove to give the right tone to the settlement of which, by
accident, they started, they are not deserving of more than passing
notice. Scores of times I have been struck by the differences in
settlements, how one is thrifty, and its neighbor shiftless; one sending
into the world young men and women of intelligence and high aspiration;
the other coarse people who gravitate downward. If a first settler is of
sterling character he moulds the community that gathers around him and
he deserves honor, but the first settler of gross habits it is well to
forget. The government that tries to make a selection among those who
seek its land acts wisely in the interest of coming generations. To give
land to all who ask it, regardless of what they are, will indeed till
the country, but will be of no benefit in the long run. I know of
townships where laziness, ignorance, prejudice, and gross habits
prevail to such a degree that it would have been better had the land
remained in bush. The bullet strikes as the rifle is pointed, and Canada
has never aimed to secure the best people as settlers. We need
population, has been the cry, get it and never mind of what quality it
is. What is more blamable, our legislature does not even try to secure
settlers who will assimilate. Business called me to a township one
summer where few of the settlers knew a word of English. Is that the way
to build up Canada as British?

Nature has designed Canada as an agricultural country and such it must
remain. It will prosper as its farmers prosper, and languish when they
are not doing well. It follows their welfare should be the first
consideration, and a mistake will be made if the fact is not recognized
when they work under unfavorable conditions.

The farmer in the Old Country can plow every month in the year and his
flocks and herds only need supplementary rations to keep them in
condition. How different it is here, where winter locks the soil in iron
bonds half the year and animals must be fed from October to May. What
our farmers raise in six months is consumed in the other six, so that
their labor half the year is to store up food for the other half. The
result is, that the earnings of our farmers are less than half of what
they would be had we England's climate. The public man who argues that
because the Old Country farmer can pay heavy rent to his landlord, bear
the burden of severe taxation, and yet make a living, the Canadian
farmer should be able to do likewise, shuts his eyes to the kind of
winter he has to fight against. That winter cuts his earnings more than
half, for, during the months the land is frozen he is unable to do any
kind of profitable farm work, indeed has spells of enforced idleness.
The Old Country farmer can keep hired help the year round, for he has
employment for them; the Canadian farmer needs extra hands only during
summer. The result is that his margin of profits is so narrow that he
can never pay such taxes as are collected from the agricultural class in
England. When public burdens draw on his income to the extent that he is
not left a living profit, the Anglo-Saxon will leave the land to be
occupied by an unenterprising class of people who are content to
vegetate, not to live. The pre-eminent essential in Canada's policy is
to make farming profitable and keep it so.

While the statement, that agriculture is the foundation of Canada's
life, is so often repeated that it has become a commonplace remark, is
it not extraordinary that none of its public men since Simcoe's day have
acted upon it? With the words on their lips, Canada rests upon the
farmer, it would be expected the welfare of the farmer would be their
solicitous concern. In the first element of agricultural prosperity, the
settlement of the land, they have kept back the progress of the country
by bestowing it, not on the men ready and anxious to cultivate it, but
upon individuals and companies who expect to make a profit by reselling
to the actual settler. By making the land a commodity to buy political
support, the settlement of the country has been kept back. The rule,
that the land be given only to those who will live upon it and crop it,
would have saved heartbreak to thousands of willing men who came to our
shores asking liberty to till its soil, and would have placed an
occupant on every lot fit to yield a living. The individuals and
companies who have been given grants of blocks of land under the
pretence that they would settle them, have been blights on the progress
of the country.

As to the danger of taxation increasing to a degree that will make the
working of the land unattractive to the intelligent and enterprising,
that menace comes from two classes--the projectors of public works who
agitate for them from self-interest, and from those who have raised a
clamor to encourage manufacturers by giving them bonuses in the form of
protective duties. Should a levy ever be made on the earnings of the
farmer to help a favored class, there will be a leaving of the land for
other countries and for better-paying occupations.

My desire is, to see Canada a land where every man who wishes may own a
part of God's footstool and, by industry, secure a decent living. Surely
it is a patriotic duty to make Canada a nation where toil and thrift
fetch the reward of independence, a nation without beggars or of men
willing to work and cannot get it, a nation of happy homes where there
is neither wealth nor luxury but enough of the world's means to ensure
comfort and to develop in its men and women what is best in human
nature.



CHAPTER X.

PARTING WITH OLD FRIENDS


My story of how I came to Canada and how the family which made me one of
their number got on in its backwoods has taken a long time to tell, yet
I must lengthen it to make known what became of some of the people
mentioned in the course of it. Tilly remained with us a year, when she
went to live with the Bambrays, who needed her help. When they, later
on, decided to end their days in their native town, Huddersfield, she
went with them to England. Once a year a letter came from Mr Bambray,
with a long postscript by Tilly, overflowing with good wishes, and in
each letter was a draft to help escaped slaves get a fresh start in
life. The worthy couple died several years ago, making Tilly their chief
legatee. She married a man for whom she described herself as unworthy
and who makes her happy every day. When Ruth married she sent her a gift
of $250 to furnish her house. Ruth's husband is a capable farmer, who is
doing well. They are an evenly matched team, pulling together and happy
in each other. When Robbie came of age the master divided his farm
equally between his two sons, and bought for himself six acres fronting
Yonge-street. On this he built a commodious house and a large
greenhouse, for he designed carrying on market-gardening. In an
excavation deep enough to be below the frost line the greenhouse was
built, and there were other devices to do with as little stove-heat as
possible. Sloot, who had been left a widower, and having no family,
became the hired man and made his home for the remainder of his life
with the master and mistress, to whom he was deeply attached. Twice a
week he drove to market the produce that was for sale, and though
occupation not beyond their strength was their purpose, remarkable
profits were made off these six acres. The mistress was happy in tending
the greenhouse and flower-beds, and in entertaining visitors, for they
had many apart from their own children and grand-children. They were
honored far and wide and a drive to their house, which they named
Heatherbell cottage, to have a chat and get a bouquet was a common
recreation with many Torontonians. Of your mother I need not speak; you
know how happy we are in each other. We never had any courtship--our
lives from the first sight of her when I ventured to seek shelter in her
father's house on that rainy day has been one long dwelling in each
other's affections. As trees strengthen with years, our attachment has
grown deeper and purer. Just as soon as I made my footing good in
Toronto, our marriage took place. Lovers before the ceremony we are
lovers still. Ah, my dear lassie, do not think love is a brief fever of
youth--a transient emotion that fades before the realities of wedded
life like the glow from a cloud at morn. Where love is of the true
quality, it becomes purer and tenderer with the passing years. Death may
interrupt, but cannot end such affection as ours. Love is eternal.

With Mr Kerr I kept up the exchange of letters he asked, and the
information and advice his contained have helped to shape my character
and opinions. The year after his arrival he started in business for
himself and prospered. His wife is the girl whom he was courting when he
fled from Greenock. Our visits to them are delightful memories and you
know how we enjoy their sojourns with us. Jabez also became a
Montrealer. The business of himself and brothers as carters naturally
merged into forwarders. As trade grew it was found needful one should be
in Montreal, and Jabez went. Levelheaded and full of resource he soon
came to the front in the shipping-trade.

With Mr Snellgrove we had an unlooked for encounter. The master was on a
visit to us at Toronto. On reading notices of a meeting to be held in
favor of Protection and of the government issuing paper currency instead
of gold, we decided to attend. The first speaker was Isaac Buchanan, who
deluged us with figures about Bullionism and the balance of trade. We
were relieved when he ended. Then a college professor read a paper on
the Co-relation of Great Britain and her Colonies. It was difficult to
follow him. He was one of those theoretical men who think forms of
government and names can make a country great. We started with
astonishment on the chairman saying he had pleasure in introducing Mr
Snellgrove as the next speaker. It was he sure enough, older but still
spruce, and resplendent in full evening dress. He did not touch on
currency, but confined himself to advocating a protective tariff so high
that it would shut out foreign goods. That would enable manufacturers to
establish themselves in Canada, and instead of a stream of gold going to
Britain and the United States the money would be spent for goods made in
Canada. See what a rich country we would become if we kept our money
here, he said; our great lack is capital to develop our immense
resources. We had the capital in our own hands but, blind to our own
interests, sent it away to Great Britain or, what was worse, to the
United States to build up a country that was hostile to us. Like the
Gulf Stream, which sweeping through the Atlantic enriches every country
it touches, he would have a golden circuit established in Canada--the
farmers would sell to the manufacturers and the money paid them would
continue to flow backward and forward to the enrichment of both. The
flowing of gold from our midst would be stopped, and the farmers, with a
home-market for all they could raise, would become rich and view with
delight factories rising on every hand. All this could be accomplished
by enacting a judiciously-framed tariff and delay in doing so was not
only keeping Canada poor but endangering her future as a British
dependency. Applause followed Mr Snellgrove's sitting down, and the
chairman praised him as a gentleman who had carefully thought out his
proposals, which commended themselves to every patriotic mind. We wanted
diversity of occupation and retention of the earnings of the farmers in
Canada; here was a method of effecting both these desirable ends.

The master got on his feet and begged permission to be heard in reply.
He was invited to the platform and, with his usual directness and force,
at once assailed what Mr Snellgrove had advanced. He says, let us have a
law that will compel us to cease buying goods abroad, for thereby the
money now sent away will be kept in Canada. What right has any
government to pass such a law? With the money I get for my wheat may I
not buy what I need where I see fit? Such an arbitrary law as he pleads
for would undoubtedly help the manufacturer, but would it help me, who
am a farmer? The question I ask, is not will the money stay in Canada,
but will the money I have justly earned stay in my pocket? I will be
none the richer if the money goes into the pocket of the owner of a
factory. In the Old Country the farmers carry the aristocracy who own
the land on their backs, are the laws of Canada to be so shaped that the
farmers here are to carry the manufacturers? It may not be plain to you
city gentlemen, but it is to me, that under the system you have heard
advocated, factories would increase and their owners grow rich while
the farmers would become poor, for they would have to pay more than they
now do for the goods necessity makes them buy. My family needs about
$300 worth of store-goods in a year. That is what I pay now. Under
Protection these same goods would cost me $400, perhaps more. The
Canadian manufacturers would be the richer by the hundred extra dollars
I would pay, and I would be the poorer by a hundred dollars. The point
at issue, is not keeping money in the country, but of keeping it in the
pockets of the men who first earned it by cultivating the soil. Canada
is a farming country and always will be, and taxing each farmer's family
on an average of say a hundred dollars a year is going to discourage the
farmer. Let every tub stand on its own bottom. If any commodity can be
made in Canada at a profit under present conditions, I wish all success
to the man who undertakes to make that commodity, but to tax me to give
the man a bonus to do so is to rob me of my honest earnings. We have
been told we want more population. Yes, if it be of the right kind, of
people who will go, as I did, into the bush and carve out farms. These
will add to our strength, but hordes drawn from cities who cannot and
will not take to the plow, will prove in the long run a weakness. If you
knew the poverty and misery that exists among the factory operatives of
the Old World you would not entertain a project to bribe them to come
here and reproduce the same conditions. Today you have not a beggar on
Toronto's streets; adopt Protection and you will have thousands of
paupers. This is a new country and our aim should be to make it one
where honest industry can find a sure reward in its forests and not be
creating factories by artificial means. As an Old Countryman, I take
exception to the land I came from being treated as foreign and a ban
placed on the goods it has to export. When I go into a store I like to
think what I am buying is helping those I left behind, and when I pay
for the cloth and other goods they made, do they not in return buy the
grain, the butter and cheese, and the pork I have to sell? I protest
against our government abusing its power to tax the farmers to benefit
the manufacturers. That is tyranny, and when farmers understand that
Protection is one of the meanest forms of despotism, they will revolt.
This must be a free country, with no favor shown to any class.

We saw gentlemen on the platform urging the chairman to stop the master;
he seemed reluctant to make a scene. Finally he did pull him down,
stating he was not speaking to the subject before the meeting. The best
reply to the disloyal outpouring to which they had listened he
considered was contemptuous silence. After votes of thanks the meeting
ended. The master advanced towards Mr Snellgrove to renew his
acquaintance. Mr Snellgrove turned his back upon him and left with a
group of gentlemen. I learned he held a government office.

I have a more unexpected meeting to relate. The sixth year after my
marriage, it had been arranged Christmas should be celebrated at Allan's
and New Year's at the master's. We had been looking for what people in
Scotland dread, a Green Yule, for the ground was bare. When we rose the
morning before Christmas we were pleased to see it white, and a gentle
sifting of snow falling. Allan came for us early in the afternoon and we
filled his big sleigh with children and parcels. We had just got into
the house when the clouds lowered and it became suddenly dark. You have
seen in summer a gentle rain prevail, until, all at once, a plump came
that covered the ground with streams of water. Once in a number of years
the like happens with snow, and a gentle fall turns into a smothering
stream of snowflakes. In an hour the ground was so cumbered that it
reached to the knees of those who ventured out. Supper was over and the
romping of the children was in full swing when Robbie cried he thought
he heard somebody shouting outside. There was a pause in the merriment
as he flung open the door. The snow had ceased to fall and the air was
calm and soft. A black object was seen on the road to the left, from
which came cries for help. Allan and Robbie dashed into the snow and
struggled through it. We watched them but it was too dark to see what
they did on reaching the road. Our suspense was ended on seeing them
returning with a stranger, and leading a horse. Robbie took the horse to
the stable; Allan and the stranger, covered with snow entered. After
brushing him and taking off his wraps the stranger stood before us, a
good-looking man past middle life. He explained he had left home that
morning for Toronto, his chief errand to get the supplies and presents
the lack of sleighing had hindered his going for sooner. Overtaken by
the unlooked for downfall, he had halted at a tavern undecided what to
do. The barroom was crowded. A man told him, on hearing where he was
going, if he took the first turn to his left, he would find a road that
would be passable, for it was sheltered by bush. Anxious to get home,
and the tavern accommodation not inviting, he had, after watering his
horse, started anew. Half an hour or so later, while pushing slowly
along, a runner of his cutter had struck some obstacle, the horse
plunged forward, tipping the rig. On getting on his feet, on lifting the
cutter, he found a runner had been wrenched off, and there he was
helpless. Seeing the lights of our house, he shouted, and, for a long
time, he thought in vain. While he was speaking, my memory was groping
to place a voice that seemed an echo of one I had heard in the past. I
looked at the face, but in the firm-set features that told of wrestling
with the world, I found no aid. It was not until the house-colley went
up to sniff at him and he stooped to pat its head that it flashed on me
the stranger was the shepherd-lad who had befriended me in my weary
tramp across Ayrshire. Facing him, I said, 'Is not your name Archie?'
'It is,' he replied, looking surprised. 'And do you not remember the
ragged boy your dog found under a bush, how you shared your bite with
him; how we sat under your plaid and read the bible and heard each other
the questions?' As I spoke I could tell by his face his memory too was
at work. 'Yes, yes,' he exclaimed, 'it all comes back to me, and you are
curly-headed Gordon Sellar.' Had we been of any other race the right
thing to do would have been to have fallen into each other arms, but
seeing we were undemonstrative Scots we gripped hands though I could not
hold back the tears of gratitude on seeing the man who had been so kind
to me. His coming was no damper to the evening's joy. He made himself at
home at once, and before he was ten minutes among us the children were
clambering over him, for he had joined them in their play. He was the
same free-hearted, easily-pleased lad I had known. When, late in the
evening, I took him to his room, we had a long talk, and the fire of
friendship kindled on the Ayrshire braeside burned again. We had
breakfast together long before daylight, for he was anxious to get home.
It had been settled Allan would lend his team and long sleigh, and that
I drive. The sound of sleighbells brought us to our feet, and at the
door was the sleigh with the broken cutter piled into it with all the
parcels that had been picked out of the snow, and tied to the seat was
Archie's mare. I hesitated leaving Alice on such a day, but she insisted
I must go with my friend. It was not a long drive but it was a slow one.
I turned back into Yonge street, where there would be a track broken,
and kept on it until we reached the corner to turn westward. We halted
an hour at the corner-tavern to feed and rest the horses, which could
not have made the headway they were making had they not been a noble
team, Allan's pride. The way, however, was not long to us, for we had
much to talk about. Archie narrated his past life, and, curious about
mine, I had to tell him my simple story. Reserve there was none. Once
again we were boys, rejoicing in each other, and warming to one another
as true friends do in exchanging their inmost confidences. I will not
relate what he told, for I will weave into his narrative what I got
afterwards from his sister and his father and mother, and present it in
connected form. We were passing down a concession, which had every
indication of being a prosperous settlement, when Archie pointed to a
brick house in the far-distance as his. On drawing near we found its
inmates had been on the watch, for tumbling through the snow came four
children, who clambered in beside us, rejoiced to see their father and
anxious to know what he had brought for them. On reaching, at last, the
house there was gathered at the door the two oldest of the family, a
fine-looking girl and a tall lad, with the mother, and behind them an
aged couple. A hired man took the team, but the mare, looking to the lad
at the door, whinnied. He jumped forward and led her to her stall. 'That
is his pony,' remarked Archie. What a scene of rejoicing on that day of
joy the world over! Mrs Craig, to give her name, told how they had
waited the night before for the coming of Archie until the younger
members fell asleep in their chairs, how they had kept supper warm, and
how, not until two in the morning, they had gone to bed, convinced he
had stayed overnight somewhere on the road, for the possibility of
misadventure they would not admit The forenoon had been of more anxious
waiting, for as time slipped they began to dread an accident had
befallen him. To have him back safe, and the parcels safe, was perfect
joy, and the two youngest darted from the house to try the sleds Santa
Claus had sent them by their father. Mrs Craig, a tidy purpose-like
woman, was profuse in thanks to me for helping her husband. Archie's
father and mother struck me, at the first glance, as the finest old
couple my eyes had ever rested upon. He was tall and rugged in frame, as
became an old shepherd, but his face was a benediction--so calm, so
composed, such a look of perfect content. His companion recalled
grannie, only more alert. Burns might have taken them as models for his
song, John Anderson, my jo. As the sun was setting there was a shout of
'Auntie,' and the youngsters bounded down the long lane to meet a sleigh
that was dragging its way through snow as high as the box. Auntie was
Archie's sister--like him yet unlike, the same features of softer mould,
lighted up with merry smiles that told of a happy heart. And there were
children with her, and her husband, a stout hearty man with a loud
voice. Sleigh after sleigh drove up the lane, each hailed with shouting
and laughter, for each one brought not only the elders of the household
but their children. What a shaking of hands and interchange of good
wishes there was, and then came supper. There were over fifty guests,
but there was ample preparation in the big back kitchen, where supper
was served. When all had enough, including the dogs and Maisie's
pussies, the older folk moved to the front room. In a jiffy dishes and
temporary tables disappeared in that big back kitchen, and the
youngsters began their games. By-and-by a fiddle was heard, and I am
afraid there was dancing. We had a happy evening. Two-handed cracks,
stories, jokes, songs, made the time pass too quickly. It was a novelty
to me that all the guests were either Irish or English; fine people,
intelligent, wide-awake as to the necessity of advancing and making
improvements. Plates of apples and fruit cake appearing notified the
time for parting had come, and in more than one mother's arms rested a
little one who had crept in from the big kitchen too sleepy to remain
longer. In shaking hands with my new-found acquaintances, they all pled
with me to pay them a visit. Before I fell asleep, I thought of what a
fine yeomanry dwelt in the settlement, and the misfortune it would be
if, by any legislative mis-step, they were constrained to leave the
farm.

Next morning I had, of course, to visit the stables and see the
live-stock, and to judge as far as was possible, with two feet of snow
resting upon it, of the farm and its surroundings. Every detail told of
a capable and energetic farmer, who knew a good horse and the best use
that could be made of pig and cow. There were no loose ends, everything
was in its place and in the best of order. The hour I was left alone
with Archie's father and mother was as refreshing as a breeze from
Scotia's heath-clad hills. On asking grannie whether Mirren and Archie
were her only children she answered, 'There are two biding with the
Lord.' After listening to what they told me of how they came to Canada,
of what Mirren and Archie had done for them, my heart swelled in
thanking God that filial piety still cast luster on humanity. After an
early dinner I left and reached Allan's in time to share in the
after-feast of the fragments of Christmas good things. Many a visit I
have since that day paid to Archie, and many he has to me. It may be
that neither of us having a brother we crept so close together that we
are supremely happy in each others company even if we utter not a word.



CHAPTER XI.

MIRREN AND ARCHIE


A shepherd's wage is small, and grows smaller as age creeps on. The
young and active get the preference and the old have to take a lower fee
at each hiring fair to secure employment. That was the experience of
Archie's father. At the best, it had been only with thrift ends could be
got to meet, but as he aged it was a struggle. The children had to help.
Archie hired with a farmer and in time rose to be ploughman; Mirren
after learning to be a dressmaker, found to be in service was
preferable. What they could spare of their earnings it was their pride
to give in order to keep a home for their parents. While still a boy
Archie had shaped in his little head a plan of going to Canada, where
there was a possibility of becoming independent, and had begun early to
try and save enough to take him across the Atlantic. He had fixed on $50
as the sum he must have, but found, with all the self-denial he could
exercise, difficult to scrape together. Emergencies arose that required
his breaking in on his little hoard of savings, and spring after spring
he was disappointed in being unable to sail. His sister encouraged him.
Like him, she was determined to break with the conditions that bound
them in the chain of poverty. On Sunday afternoons, when they met, their
talk was of the future that awaited them across the sea. It was not for
themselves they planned and saved. Their ambition was to give a
comfortable home to their parents, for they foresaw that, unless Archie
carved a farm out of the Canadian bush, they would end in becoming a
charge to the parish, which was revolting to them and which they knew
would break their parents' hearts. Of all misfortunes that can overtake
them, to the independent-minded Scot the acceptance of poor relief is
the lowest degradation conceivable. It was in the month of March, the
time when ships were getting ready for the St Lawrence, that brother and
sister had an anxious consultation. Archie had $40. Would he venture to
go on that amount? The risk of longer delay, the doubt if another
twelvemonth would increase the sum, were considered. Archie was for
risking all--he wanted to end their suspense. 'Go,' replied the sister,
'father might not be able to stand the voyage if we waited two years
more,' and so it was settled.

While Archie had been scraping together the money needed for his
passage, his mother and sister had been doing what they could to provide
his outfit. The mother span and knitted stockings, a chest was got, and
shirts and other clothing cut and sewed. To eke out the ship-rations
provisions must be had, and in this neighbors helped--the wife of the
farmer he worked for presented him with a cheese, she called it a
kebbuck, and his father's master insisted on his accepting two stone of
meal, part of which was baked into oatcakes. The step Archie was to take
was not only serious but dangerous, for many ships in those days were
wrecked, a few never heard of, and the fear that he might not reach
Canada oppressed those who bade him good-by. The morning he left was
trying. He kept a cheery countenance and was profuse in his expressions
of confidence of success and that before long they would be re-united.
The father, sternly repressing his emotions in parting with his only
son, wrung his hand. 'When I am on the hillside alone with the yowes I
will be praying God may be with you--when you are in the bush, will you
not be praying for us?' 'That I will, father.' 'Then,' said the old man,
'though the ocean roll between us we will be united in spirit.' Taking
his watch out of his pocket, the father held it out. 'No, no,' said
Archie, 'I cannot take your watch.' 'You must take it; my companion for
many a year it will cheer you in the woods, and keep you in mind of the
promise you have just made.' The sister went with him to the turn of the
road. She treasured his last words and they were her comfort. 'Mirren, I
have covenanted with God, that I will never forget our father and mother
and will do all that in me lies to help and comfort them.' He strode on
his way to Greenock, whither his chest had gone by the carrier.

The ship made a good voyage and in time he got to Toronto, where, with
some trouble, he was given a location-ticket for a lot. Bargaining with
a teamster who was taking a load to a settlement in the neighborhood of
his lot, to leave his chest on his way, he started on foot. It was well
he did, for from what he saw on the road he learnt much of what settlers
have to do. He watched the chopping of trees, the making of potash, the
hoeing in of the first crop, and the building of shanties, for in
succession he came upon settlers engaged in all these operations, and he
was not backward in asking questions, or slow in observing. The
afternoon of the second day he reached where the local land-agent lived.
There was a small gristmill, a sawmill, a blacksmith shop, an ashery and
half a dozen houses, all rudely built, planted in a surrounding of
stumps, with the bush encircling all. Asking at the largest shanty for
Mr Magarth, the woman he spoke to pointed to a man, bareheaded and in
his shirtsleeves, piling boards. On hearing his business Magarth said,
'You're the man whose chest was left here yesterday. Well, it is too
late in the day to show you what lot you have been given. Can you
count?' On being told he could, Magarth got a shingle and a piece of
chalk and told him to mark down as he called out the measurements of the
boards. On finishing the pile, Archie reported the number of feet. 'Just
what I guessed,' said Magarth, 'now come with me.' He led to the door of
an extension at the end of his house, which Archie saw was a primitive
shop, there being, in a confused heap, everything settlers could call
for. Explaining his daughter who kept his books was on a visit to
Toronto, he handed Archie an account-book and asked him to write down
the entries he would call off. Seated on an empty box and smoking,
Magarth recalled all the transactions since the last entry on the book,
which Archie set down, astonished at the accuracy of the memory of the
man, who gave dates, names, and quantities with as much ease as if
reading them from a list before him. This done, he got him to fill out
his report to the crown lands department, to write several letters to
the firms he dealt with in Toronto, and one to his daughter, which was
original in matter and expression. Archie recognized the shrewdness and
ability of this unlettered man, who carried on with ease several lines
of business in addition to his farm. After supper he made Archie sit
beside him and asked if he would not give up his notion of taking up
land and hire with him. Finding he was determined to have a home of his
own, Magarth gave him much advice as to how he should begin, not
concealing, on learning he had only a few dollars, that he was sure he
would fail. After breakfast Magarth told him what he could not do
without, and laid in a bundle an ax, a saw, a spokeshave, an auger, a
hammer, nails, and would have added a grindstone had there been any way
of carrying it. 'You'll have to come out to us when your ax needs
grinding.' In a pail he put some flour, peas, and a lump of pork, tying
a frying-pan to the handle. 'But I have not money enough to pay for all
this,' said Archie. 'I know you haven't,' was the reply, 'you are to pay
me in ashes.' Sending a man with him to point out the lot, and to stay
long enough to help to raise a shelter, Archie started. Their way lay
across the country, through a dense forest, for the concession his lot
was on lay to the north and no side road had been opened to it. His
guide, whose name was Dennis, had his ax over his shoulder and blazed
the trees as they tramped on their way. Archie wondered why he should
have been given a lot so far back when they were going over so much land
that was unoccupied. Finally Dennis halted, and, after a little
searching for surveyor's posts, which were not hard to find, for the
concession had been laid out within a year, he showed Archie his limits.
'The road allowance is here,' said Dennis, 'and if I were you I would
put my shanty close to it, cut the logs for it off the allowance, and
kill two birds with one stone, make a beginning on your road and have a
shanty.' Archie was willing but made a poor fist in felling trees, and
before an hour his hands were blistered. Dennis left to him the rolling
of the logs to the chosen site and notching their corners. At noon they
rested, Dennis lighting a fire and showing Archie how to cook flour
cakes and fry pork at the same time. Towards nightfall a like meal was
cooked, and creeping into a thicket of cedars they were soon fast
asleep. Next morning Dennis picked out ash-trees and hickories small
enough to make handspikes and skids and the rearing of the shanty
began. It was small, 10 by 12 feet, in front 7 feet high sloping
backward. Showing how to lay poles to make a roof, and cover them with
sheets of elm and basswood bark, Dennis left while there was daylight
enough to show him the way. Archie was alone, buried in the bush, yet
was in high spirits. The land he stood on he owned. Everything had gone
well with him so far and he looked with steady confidence into the
future. When the shanty was finished he had to admit it was only a
hovel, which he would replace by one fit to be the home of the father
and mother whose figures were often before his mind's eye. With hands
still tender, he went on felling trees, selecting the smaller, and when
he had got a heap together he set fire, for he needed a clearance in
which he wanted to plant potatoes. On Saturday coming he left for
Magarth's, for he had promised to post up his accounts of the week. On
finishing all Magarth had to do, Archie wrote his mother. When he landed
at Montreal he had sent a letter to his father telling of the voyage and
his safe arrival. Now he had to send them word of his having got a lot
and that he had made a start in clearing it. Sunday the little hamlet
was deserted. The hired men had gone to visit friends and had taken
Magarth's boys with them. 'Tis the only outing they get,' explained
Magarth, who was surprised on Archie's preparing to return to his
shanty, for he expected he would stay till evening. Not wishing to be
beholden too much to his kind friend, he shouldered what supplies he had
bought the night before and started. Among the supplies was a hoe and a
bag of potatoes to plant amid the stumps.

The routine of his daily life was monotonous--up with the sun to attack
the trees which stood between him and a livelihood. It was lonely but he
never grew despondent. Singing, whistling, shouting, he kept at his
work. Two of the songs of Burns were his favorites--a Man's a Man for a'
that and Scots wha hae. On coming to the line, Liberty with every blow,
he drove his ax into the tree with vim, and, indeed, the trees at that
time were the enemies he had to fight. Saturdays he went to Magarth's to
do what writing he might have, for his daughter was in no hurry to leave
Toronto. Each Monday found Archie more handy with the ax, and neither
heat nor mosquitoes caused him to slacken in extending his clearance.
Wet days alone made him take rest in his shanty, in a corner of which
was his bed of hemlock boughs and fern leaves. When summer waned and the
nights grew cold the lack of a chimney in his shanty made living in it
intolerable, for the smoke circulated round until it found the hole in
the roof intended for its escape. He thought over plans to get a
chimney, but could hit on none that he could carry out without some one
to help him. From time to time he had burnings of brush-heaps, storing
the ashes in a hole he had dug in the side of a hillock and covering
them with big sheets of bark to keep them dry. The end of September, on
making his customary visit to Magarth's, he found a letter waiting for
him. It was from his sister, who expressed the delight they felt on
hearing of his having got a farm and built a house, and how his letter,
like the one he had mailed from Montreal, had passed from house to house
until everybody in the parish had read them, and they had raised quite a
'furore' about Canada and of emigration to its woods, for the
acquisition of farms of their own dazzled all. Father and mother were
well and were kept in good spirits by anticipating the day when they
would be able to join him in his fine house. He read the letter a
hundred times and vowed anew he would not turn aside until those it came
from were beside him.

On speaking to Magarth of the store of ashes he had saved and of the
slash of trees that were ready for burning, it was arranged he would
send two men if Archie would clear a way through the woods by which a
one ox-sled could pass. His frequent comings and goings across the lot
had made a foot-path, but there were decayed logs to push aside, brush
to cut here and there, and a few branches that hung low. It took three
days' work before he was satisfied a sled would have free passage. On a
Monday morning the men with the sled and oxen appeared and the burning
began. There had been a month's drouth, so the burning went well, and
when the men went back at nights the big box on the sled was filled with
ashes. At Magarth's the ashes were measured in a bushel box and emptied
into the leaches that stood beside the creek. On coming to square
accounts the ashes paid what Archie was due and left a few dollars to
his credit. Taking advantage of the return trips of the sled, he had got
his chest taken to his shanty, a quantity of short boards to make a door
and a bed, a bag of seed wheat, and a grindstone. Elated by his progress
he went to the scraping and hoeing of his clearance with a will, lifted
his potatoes, pitted them, and sowed all his seed-wheat. Then he tackled
enlarging his clearance and his daily task was again felling trees. The
weather was now often cold. He chinked the shanty but with a gaping hole
in the roof to let out the smoke it made little difference, and often he
could not get to sleep for shivering. To light a fire made it worse,
for, not being used to it, he could not stand the smoke, which choked
him and made his eyes smart. The second week in November there came a
frosty snap. Before shouldering his ax he had put the potatoes and bit
of pork he intended for dinner in a tin pail and buried it in hot ashes
to slowly cook. When he came back late in the afternoon, cold and tired
and hungry, he opened the pail and found it full of cinders. The heat
had been too great. For the first time he lost heart, and starting up,
with what daylight remained, made his way to Magarth's, where supper and
a welcome awaited him. The daughter having been back for some time, he
had given up his Saturday visits. She was big and plump, and like her
father voluble and fond of a joke. When all the others had retired for
the night, Magarth and Archie sat by the fire. Magarth guessed how it
was going with Archie and told him he could not stand out the winter.
Then, with kindly humor, he gave Archie to understand that if he and
Norah would make it up, he would take him as a partner in his business,
which was growing too large for him to manage alone. Archie was
astounded, making no reply beyond thanking him for the hint. When he
turned into a bunk in the corner of the store he was so tired that he
fell asleep and dreamt not of Norah but of the daily misery he was
enduring.

In the morning Archie rose and, without waking anybody, slipped out and
made his way to his comfortless shanty. Those who love the forest know
in how many tones it speaks, varying with the season and the force of
the wind. When in full leaf and swayed by a summer breeze the sound is
of falling water, of a phantom Niagara; in the winter, when the trees
are bare, the Northwest blast shrieks through their tops and there are
groanings diversified by sharp cries as some decayed branch is snapped
or tree falls. It was amid these doleful sounds Archie swung his ax. He
was not conscious of the bitter cold for his work kept him warm, but his
brain was full of racking thoughts. He had toiled like a slave for nigh
six months and had accomplished little, with every imaginable
deprivation he had saved nothing, and for the next six months he foresaw
cold and hunger, which he doubted he could survive. Here was an offer
that meant comfort, and relief from a penniless condition. Should he not
accept it? Was it not selfishness that whispered his doing so? Did he
not come to these woods to hew out from the heart of them a home for
those he loved? Was he going to throw up his purpose to benefit himself?
Would that be right? There was a whisper, You will be able to help them
by sending money. Is money-help all they can claim from me? Is sending
them so many dollars a month all the command to honor father and mother
means? Do they not desire to be beside me and is it not my duty to
sustain and comfort them while life lasts? Shall I place other cares
between them and me, leaving them second instead of first? So he went on
arguing mentally, until the larger consideration came uppermost, Was it
justifiable to marry a woman for whom he had no special regard, because
by so doing it would be to his worldly advantage? Then he, for the first
time in his life, tried to define what marriage was. Was marriage for
comfort and ease such a union as his conscience could approve? It was a
searching question, and while he swung the ax he argued it aloud. What
was marriage without love? No marriage, he shouted, as his ax delved
into the side of a tree. Love alone can blend two lives, and without
love marriage is sacrilege. No, he would not think of Magarth's offer,
he would cast it behind him, and go on as he was doing. Then peace came
to him, and he dwelt on the communings with his sister, and the pledge
he had given her on parting. For the first time that day he began to
sing, and when he sat on a log to eat the bread he had brought for his
dinner, he threw crumbs to a squirrel that left her hole to survey him.

Two days later he found he would have to go to Magarth's to get the
steel of his ax renewed, for it had chipped. He found only Mrs Magarth
at home, her husband and Norah had left on a visit. In the store were
two men, and he listened to their talk with interest, for one was
telling how a thriving nearby settlement had built a school and were
unable to find a teacher. Asking the name of the man who had the
engaging of one, and where he lived, Archie's resolution was made, he
would go and offer himself. A tramp of over a mile brought him to the
house. In five minutes he was engaged at a salary of six dollars a month
and to board round. The engagement was for four months. He spent the
night with the settler and left in the morning to get what clothes he
needed and to set his shanty in order. Word had gone round that a
teacher had been secured, and on his return in the afternoon there were
several callers curious to see him. His host was a North of Ireland man,
with a large family, who he was determined should learn to read and
write. He had been the leader in the building of the school-house, to
which he walked with Archie the following forenoon. It was a log
building, about twenty feet square. There were no desks and the seats
were plank set on blocks of wood. Every child able to walk was there
full of curiosity as to what school was like. Archie's difficulties
began at once. Not one of the would-be scholars had a book of any kind;
those who said they wanted to learn to write had no paper and no slates.
Had they anything they could recite from memory? A little girl forthwith
began, Now I lay me down to sleep. With great patience, Archie taught
them the first verse of the 23rd psalm, and, trying if they could sing
it, found there were several good voices. He felt encouraged. Telling
them to bring books of any kind next day, he ended the lessons by one in
arithmetic, using the fingers. The second day was better. The children
came with all kinds of books except school-books, mostly bibles. One
girl had a copy of the crown lands rules and regulations. Only six could
read a sentence by spelling each word. They had to be started from the
beginning, and Archie had provided for that by producing a smoothly
planed board on which he had printed, with a carpenter's pencil, the
alphabet on one side and figures on the other. The children, with a few
exceptions, were eager to learn. Then he got them to memorize the second
verse of the 23rd psalm, and taught them a simple hymn, singing both.
They were strong on singing, and a boy volunteered to give them a song
he had heard, which had a chorus of Derry Down. So it went on. A supply
of smooth shaved shingles was got and with bits of chalk the scholars
learned to write simple words and cast up sums. At the close of each day
Archie told them a story and questioned to see how much of it they
remembered and understood. At the end of a fortnight three of the
settlers visited to see how matters were progressing and left satisfied.

Shifting his boarding-place each Saturday Archie came to know the
settlers intimately, and perceived how little outside their daily toil
there was to engage their minds. He proposed a singing-class for the
young fellows and the girls, and set a date for the first meeting. The
evening came and there was so great a crowd that the school could not
hold them so a number clustered round the open door. Archie knew nothing
about musical notation, but he had a good voice and a great store of
songs. The difficulty was knowledge of the words, which he overcame by
singing whatever any number of them knew and by repeating in concert
verse by verse before he raised the tune. On the novelty wearing off a
number ceased to come, but no matter how cold or stormy was the night
the schoolhouse was filled by young people who heartily enjoyed those
two evenings in the week. On a preacher arranging to hold a fortnightly
service, they applied themselves to learning hymns. Without knowing it,
Archie had become popular. Taking pleasure in his work the winter passed
quickly. As his term drew towards its close there was a move to show him
some substantial token of regard. There being little money, it took the
form of a donation in kind, so, on leaving the third week of March, he
was driven to his shanty in a sled laden with parcels of flour, lumps of
pork, butter, cookies, doughnuts, and the like. His small wage had been
paid him and out of it he sent $15 to his mother.

His shanty he found buried in snow, the drift against its west end
overtopping it. Everything was as he had left it, and when he had dug
away the snow and got at the potatoes he had pitted he was glad to find
them untouched by frost. He again assailed the trees but in a different
spirit from the day when he had left. He was again hopeful of conquering
and there was much to encourage him. The weather was milder and the
daylight longer. More than anything else that cheered him on to his
lonely task was the spring sunshine. It was awakening new life in the
forest, and why not in him? On the size of his clearing depended whether
he would be able to have his parents and sister join him when spring
returned next year, and so, early and late, he attacked the trees. The
only break in his toil was when he had to go to Magarth's for something
he could not do without and those few hours of social talk were sweet to
the solitary man. Not the least interesting topic he heard was that
Norah was engaged to a wealthy produce-dealer in Toronto.

On leaving the settlement where he had taught school, the young fellows
told him to send them word when he was ready to burn, and they would
come and help him. The middle of May he walked to attend the preaching
there, and before leaving next morning had arranged they should come the
following Monday. The number who flocked into his clearance astonished
him, for almost every acquaintance he had saluted him. They came with
ox-sleds and chains and, what surprised him beyond measure, was three
women in one of the sleds who had come to make dinner and took
possession of his shanty. They worked with a will. The logs were hauled
and built into heaps and fire set, and every art the backwoodsman knows
was used to make them burn. As ashes were scraped they were shovelled
into the boxes on the sleds and started for Magarth's, returning with
small loads of boards. With so many hands the small clearance was, late
in the afternoon, put in such a shape that Archie and two men who
remained could do the rest. Before the week was out, he had oats and
peas sown, and a patch reserved for corn and potatoes. At Magarth's $10
had been placed to his credit for ashes delivered.

As he was cooking his breakfast Archie was surprised by a sound at a
distance which he recognized as the strokes of an ax. Listening with
rapt attention, there came, in a few minutes, the familiar crash of a
tree falling. 'That means I have got a neighbor: somebody has taken a
lot at the end of the concession,' said Archie, and he set about his
day's work in high spirits. It was as fine a day as a June day can be,
and there is no finer the world over. The brilliant blue of the sky was
brought out by a few snowy cloudlets drifting before a gentle breeze,
which tempered the warmth of the glorious sunshine. The heart of the
young man was glad and found expression in song and whistling as he
wielded the ax. What caused him to pause in blank astonishment? From the
woods behind him, came a voice singing 'O whistle and I will come to
you my lad.' It was a woman's voice, it was a familiar voice. Dropping
his ax he bounded towards the figure emerging from the bush where the
sled-road entered his clearance. 'It is my own sister!' he shouted in a
scream of joy, and clasped her in his brawny arms. 'O, Mirren, have you
dropped from the sky? I would have as soon expected to meet an angel.'

'I am just a sonsy Ayrshire lass and have come on my feet and not on
wings. Eh, but you've changed--ye've worked over hard.'

'It has been sweet work, for it was for father and mother. Nothing wrong
with them that sent you here?'

'I left them well, and hoping to join us next spring.'

'And how did you come--what started you--where did you get the passage
money--how did you find your way here?'

'I'll tell you after I have seen this grand house of yours. An' this is
the shanty you wrote about with everything out and inside
higgle-de-piggeldy! Ye are a great housekeeper to be sure. Why, your
house has not got a lum! (chimney). Did you have breakfast yet? Poor
fellow, no wonder your cheeks are thin.'

'Never mind, Mirren, I have planned a new house and with your help it
will soon be built.'

'That it will, Archie; it is to help you I have come.'

Sitting side by side on a pile of boards, Mirren told how she had come.
On Archie's letter reaching his mother with three pounds enclosed she
saw the possibility of Mirren going to Canada. 'The passage money is
four pounds, mother, and there is the buying of what cannot be done
without. We will have to wait for another remittance.'

'Listen, and I will tell you what I never even let on to your father.
When he had that accident six years ago that laid him up and we feared
he would never go to the hills again, the thought came to me that if he
died the parish would have to bury him. I set it down that no such
disgrace would ever fall on our family if I could help it, and when he
got better I set to put-by every penny that could be spared, and many a
hank I have spun and stocking knitted to get the pennies. After thinking
over Archie's letter, I counted what I put by and I have one pound,
seven shillings, and tenpence. Your passage, you see, is paid.'

'But I dare not leave you alone.'

'Mirren, you will do as your mother asks you. Your brother needs help:
go, and we will follow you a year sooner.'

'I thought it all over,' said Mirren, 'and it was settled I should go.
It was quite a venture for a young lass to go alone so far, but I was
not afraid, seeing there were the plain markings of what was my duty. So
we set to work to get ready, and here I am.'

'Bless you, Mirren, you have a brave heart and God helping us, we will
have father and mother with us in another twelve month, and the black
dog. Want will never frighten them more.'

Mirren was curious to see what Archie had been doing, but he took her
first to the rising ground, back in the bush, where he had decided to
build his house, and then showed her his crops. The rest of the day he
spent in cutting and setting up poles to make a shelter that would serve
as a cookhouse during the day and a sleeping-place for himself at night.
At supper she told of her journey, of the voyage, the slow ascent of the
St Lawrence, and the steamboat that landed her at Toronto. The mate
undertook to forward her chest, and pointed out Yonge-street, at the
head of the wharf. Without a minute's delay she gained it and began her
long walk. Late in the day she asked at a shanty that stood beside the
road how far she was from the corner where she had to turn. The woman,
on hearing where she was going, said she could not be there before dark
and asked her to stay overnight. Her husband with the two oldest of the
family had gone to visit his uncle and she was alone with the younger
children. Mirren gladly took her offer and tarried next morning to help
in cutting and fitting a dress for one of the girls. There were many
wagons on the road, but all were loaded with the baggage of immigrants,
who, men, women, and all except the very young, trudged their weary way
behind or alongside of them. It was late in the afternoon when Magarth's
was reached. On telling her name, she was cordially welcomed. In the
morning she was shown the sledroad that led to the lot of her brother.
The first sign that she was near him was hearing his whistling. Of the
money she had started with she had still $2.25.

With daylight next day they started to work. Mirren insisted on taking
an ax with her and began brushing the trees Archie had felled. He
remonstrated that it was not woman's work. Her reply was, she had come
to help him and she was going to do so. 'Well, then,' he said, 'we will
go to the spot where the house is to be built and work there.' On the
evening arriving on which the preacher visited the schoolhouse, they
both set out to attend the service.' Mirren had a welcome that
astonished her, and when they heard her sing her welcome was redoubled.
Archie's friend insisted on their staying until next day. It was late
that night before Mirren got to bed, for the neighbors crowded to speak
with her and hear her sing. As they walked to their humble home next
forenoon, Mirren expressed her amazement at the heartiness with which
she had been received, remarking it was her first experience with the
Irish. In reply Archie said we ought to judge people as we find them
putting away all prejudices. His sojourn among them during the winter
had made him ashamed of his misconceptions--you have to come close to
people to estimate their worth, and he could say from his soul, 'God
bless the Irish: kinder hearts do not beat in human breasts,' and told
Mirren what they had done for him.

The ox-sled that brought Mirren's chest also brought a crosscut saw, and
they tried it at once in cutting the logs for the new shanty. Archie's
saying he did not like to see her pulling the saw, brought out the
retort that she would not do it for other house than one for father and
mother. That summer was the happiest they had ever known. Their toil was
exhausting but the purpose of it and their mutual company bore them up.
To hear them singing and joking it would be thought felling trees and
sawing them into log lengths was a recreation. Such progress was made
that a bee for the raising was set for the end of August, for the season
had been early and grain was harvested. It was a bee that was the talk
of the neighborhood for months afterwards. Young and old came, more with
a desire to help the brave lassie who had won their hearts than for
Archie's sake, well-liked as he was. With her watching them, the young
men vied with one another and never did log walls mount faster nor
rafters span them than when they had reached their height. On a green
maple branch being stuck in a gable peak to indicate progress, a wild
huroo arose that woke the forest echoes. When the bee broke up all the
rough work was done; what was left Archie could do himself with the aid
of a carpenter and mason, for a regular fireplace and chimney needed the
latter.

The brother and sister agreed that a less remittance than ten pounds
would not do to bring their parents to Canada, and how to raise the $50
was a subject of concern to them. What produce they had to spare would
fetch little. Their perplexity was relieved at the close of October by
a visit from two men, who had come to find out if Archie would again, be
their schoolmaster. There were more families now and more scholars and
they would pay $7 a month and board round. He hesitated, he could not
leave his sister alone. 'Take the offer,' she eagerly cried, 'I will go
to the settlement with you.' 'What would you do there?' 'You forget,
Archie, I learned dressmaking. I will cut and fit and add a little to
our savings.' The second week in November the school was opened, this
time under better conditions, for a storekeeper had brought books and
slates, and Archie fetched with him a blackboard he had contrived to put
together. With the day-school the singing school was resumed, to which
Mirren added fresh interest. She got all the work she could do, for few
of the women knew how to cut clothes for their children, let alone for
themselves, and were glad to pay for cutting and fitting, doing the
sewing at home. The winter sped quickly and the middle of March saw
brother and sister back to their clearance and to the felling of trees.
On counting their earnings in February they found they were able to send
to their parents the desired ten pounds, with the urgent advice to take
the first ship. How they would do on arriving at Toronto perplexed them,
until Mr Magarth gave them the address of his son-in-law to enclose in
their letter, assuring them Norah would care for them and see to their
finishing their journey. When June came Mirren expected them each day
and made every preparation for their reception. The spot in the bush
where the sled-road ended and by which they must come, she watched with
unflagging eagerness, but day after day passed and July came without
their appearance. She was stooping in the garden cutting greens for
dinner when a voice behind her asked, 'Hoo is a' wi' ye, Mirren?' With a
scream of joy she clasped her father and mother. A loud shout brought
Archie from the end of the clearance where he was at work with the ax.
The reward of their toil and strivings had come at last, they were once
again a re-united family. In the evening they sat in front of their new
shanty, the clearance before them filled with crops that half-hid the
stumps and promised abundance. 'Praise God,' exclaimed the old shepherd
as he reverently raised his bonnet, 'we are at last independent and need
call no man master.' For his age he was strong and active and his
assistance made Archie independent of outside help. The four working
together, and working intelligently and with a purpose, speedily placed
them on the road to prosperity.

       *       *       *       *       *

One defect in the backwoods life troubled the conscience of the old
shepherd, and that was the practical disregard for religious
observances. He was not satisfied with occasional services and, when
harvesting was over, made a house-to-house visit to see if sufficient
money could be got to mend the situation. Nobody said him nay yet none
gave him the encouragement he had hoped. In the Old Land the only free
contributions they had made for religious purposes was the penny dropped
on the plate on Sunday, so the appeal to make a sacrifice to secure
stated ordinances, was to them a novelty. An Englishman asked, 'When had
the King become unable to pay the parson?' His visits also made him
aware that there were many children unbaptised and that not one of those
who told him they were church members had received the communion since
they had left the Old Country. His resolution was taken--he would go to
Toronto and seek out a minister, he did not care of what denomination,
to spend a week or more in this new but fast-growing cluster of
settlements. Though they did not say so to him, the settlers thought his
errand a crazy one. As chance would have it, he did happen on a man as
zealous for the cause as himself and with no pressing engagement for the
time being. On his arriving he started with the shepherd on a round of
visits, exhorting and baptizing, and announcing he would celebrate the
Lord's supper, the last Sunday before his return to Toronto. So many
promised to come that it was seen the school-house could not hold them.
The minister fell in with the suggestion that the meeting be held
out-of-doors and there were men found who agreed to make ready. It was
now October, and the trees, as if conscious of their departure for their
long sleep, arrayed themselves in glorious apparel to welcome the rest
that awaited them. The spot selected for the meeting was the wide ravine
hollowed out by the creek that flowed sluggishly at the bottom. On the
flat that edged the east side of the creek planks were laid on trestles
to form the table, while the people were expected to sit under the trees
on the sloping bank that rose from it. From an early hour the people
began coming. Word had spread far beyond the houses visited, and there
were a few who had walked ten miles and over. The solemnity of the
occasion was heightened by the weather. Not a breath stirred the air and
the yellow or scarlet leaves that flecked the glassy surface of the
creek had fluttered downward because their time for parting with the
branches had come. A bluish haze tempered the rays of the sun, which was
mounting a cloudless sky. When the minister rose to begin, he faced a
motley crowd, for while all had done their best to be clean and neat,
with rare exceptions, all were in their every day dress, worn and
patched, for to get clothes is one of the difficulties of the new-come
settlers. There were few aged, for the young and active lead the way
into the bush. There were women with babes in their arms, and there were
many children, gazing with open-eyed curiosity. The hundredth psalm was
given out and the silence of the woods was broken by a volume of melody.
The reading from St John where is told the institution of the last
supper, was followed by a prayer of thanksgiving, that even in the
forest-wilderness heaven's manna was to be found by those who seek for
it, with passionate entreaty for forgiveness and cleanness of heart.
Then singing and the sermon, a loving call to remember heavenly things
in the eager seeking for what is needed for the body; the old truth that
God is a spirit and can be approached only by each individual spirit,
that no man, whatever his pretensions, can come between the soul and its
Maker, and no ceremony or oblation effect reconcilement. The invitation
to come to the table was that all who loved the Lord should do so.
Slowly and reverently those who responded moved downward to take their
seats on a bench fronting the table of a single plank. Looking across
the creek there faced them a luxuriant vine, clinging high on the trees
that supported its mass of purple foliage. Amid these surroundings of
Nature the love of Him who condemned formalism and who was simplicity's
very essence, was recalled. When the parting song was sung, and the
people began to leave to attend the home-duties that could not wait, the
old shepherd expressed himself satisfied that seed had been sown that
would bear fruit, and so it did.

THE END



Lines on the Gordon Sellar who was drowned in his boyhood

     O that day of desolation!
       O that hour of dumb despair!
     Why, instead, was I not taken--
       The fading leaf the bud to spare?

     Why thy joyous life thus ended?
       Why wert born thus to die?
     Whither hast thy spirit wended--
       Here a moment then to fly?

     Come, O Faith, in all thy gladness,
       Lift me high above my woe;
     Leave with God this hour of darkness,
       Seeking not the cause to know.

     Nevermore, my son, I'll clasp thee,
       Nevermore thy voice I'll hear.
     Till I scan the towers of Salem
       See thee and the Saviour dear.


       *       *       *       *       *


HISTORY OF THE SETTLEMENT of the Counties of Huntingdon, Chateauguay,
and Beauharnois, 584 pp. $2.

THE QUEBEC MINORITY; collection of pamphlets relating thereto.

MORVEN: How a Band of Highlanders reached Glengarry during the U.S.
Revolution. 50c.

THE TRUE MAKERS OF CANADA. $1 or $1.25 as to binding

Any of above sent by mail on receipt of price.

Address--THE GLEANER Huntingdon, Que.

THE TRAGEDY OF QUEBEC is out of print. Announcement will be made when
the fourth edition is ready.





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