The Settlers in Canada

"I will confess, my dear Emma, that I passed much such a night; old associations will rise up again when so forcibly brought to our remembrance as they have been by Miss Paterson's letters, but I strove all I could to banish them from my mind, and not indulge in useless repining."

"Repine, I do not, Mary, at least, I hope not, but one can not well help regretting; I can not help remembering, as Macduff says, that 'such things were.'"

"He might well say so, Emma; for what had he lost? his wife and all his children, ruthlessly murdered; but what have we lost in comparison? nothing—a few luxuries. Have we not health and spirits? Have we not our kind uncle and aunt, who have fostered us—our cousins so attached to us? Had it not been for the kindness of our uncle and aunt, who have brought us up as their own children, should we, poor orphans, have ever been partakers of those luxuries which you now regret? Ought we not rather to thank Heaven that circumstances have enabled us to show some gratitude for benefits heaped upon us? How much greater are these privations to my uncle and aunt now that they are so much more advanced in years, and have been so much longer accustomed to competence and ease; and shall we repine or even regret, unless it is on their account? Surely, my dear Emma, not on our own."

"I feel the truth of all you say, Mary," replied Emma; "nay, all that you have now said passed in my own mind, and I have argued to myself in almost the same words, but I fear that I am not quite so much of a philosopher as you are; and, acknowledging that what you say is correct, I still have the same feeling—that is, I wish that I had not received the letter from Miss Paterson."

"In that wish there can be no harm, for it is only wishing that you may not be tempted to repine."

"Exactly, my dear Mary; I am a daughter of Eve," replied Emma, laughing, and rising from her seat; "I will put away Miss Paterson's letter, and I dare say in a day or two I shall have forgotten all about it. Dear Alfred, how glad I am that he is promoted; I shall call him Lieutenant Campbell till he is sick of it. Come, Mary, or we shall be keeping my uncle waiting; come, Juno."

Emma's calling Juno to follow her, reminds me that I have not yet introduced the dogs to my little readers, and as they will have to play their parts in our history, I may as well do so at once. Captain Sinclair, it may be remembered, had procured five dogs for Mr. Campbell from the officers of the fort,—two terriers, which were named Trim and Snob; Trim was a small dog and kept in the house, but Snob was a very powerful bull-terrier, and very savage; a fox-hound bitch, the one which Emma had just called Juno; Bully, a very fine young bull-dog, and Sancho, an old pointer. At night, these dogs were tied up: Juno in the store-house; Bully and Snob at the door of the house within the palisade; Trim in doors, and old Sancho at the lodge of Malachi Bone, where the cows were put in at night. Mr. Campbell found it rather expensive at first feeding these dogs, but as soon as Martin and his companions brought home game, there was always plenty for them all. They were all very sharp and high-couraged dogs, for they had been born in the fort and had been brought up to hunting every kind of game indiscriminately; and I need hardly add that they were excellent watch-dogs, and considered by Mr. Campbell as a great protection. For the next two days, the family remained rather unsettled; there was so much news in the newspapers; so many recollections brought up by their perusal; so much to talk about and discuss, that very little work was done. The weather, however, was now becoming much colder, and, for the last two days the sun had not shone. The sky was of one uniform, murky, solemn gray; and every thing announced that the winter was close at hand. Martin, who had been hunting, when he came home bid them prepare for an immediate change in the weather, and his prediction was speedily verified.

CHAPTER XV

It was on the Saturday evening, when they had all assembled round the fire, for it was more cold than it had hitherto been, that the moaning of the wind among the trees of the forest announced a gale of wind from the northward.

"We shall have it soon," observed Martin, "winter mostly comes in with a gale."

"Yes; and this appears as if it would be a strong gale," replied Alfred. "Hark! how the boughs of the trees are sawing and cracking against each other."

"I reckon we may get our snow-shoes out of the store-house, John," said Martin, "and then we shall see how you can get over the ground with them when you go hunting. You have not shot a moose yet."

"Is the moose the same as the elk, Martin?" said Henry.

"I do not think it is, sir; yet I've heard both names given to the animal."

"Have you ever shot any?" said Mrs. Campbell.

"Yes, ma'am; many a one. They're queer animals; they don't run like the other deer, but they trot as fast as the others run, so it comes to the same thing. They are very shy, and difficult to get near, except in the heavy snow, and then their weight will not allow them to get over it, as the lighter deer can; they sink up to their shoulders, and flounder about till they are overtaken. You see, Master Percival, the moose can't put on snow-shoes like we can, and gives us the advantage over the animal."

"Are they dangerous animals, Martin?" inquired Mary Percival.

"Every large animal is more or less dangerous when it turns to bay, miss. A moose's horns sometimes weigh fifty pounds, and it is a strong animal to boot; but it can't do anything when the snow is deep. You'll find it good eating, at all events, when we bring one in."

"I'll bring one," said John, who was cleaning his rifle.

"I dare say you will as soon as you can manage your snow-shoes," replied Martin. "The wind is getting up higher. I guess you'll not find your way back to Malachi's lodge, Master John, as you thought to do to-morrow morning."

"It is certainly a dreadful night," observed Mrs. Campbell; "and I feel the cold very sensibly."

"Yes, ma'am; but as soon as the snow is down, you'll be warmer."

"It is time to go to bed," observed Mr. Campbell, "so put away your work: and, Henry, give me down the Bible."

During that night the gale increased to almost a hurricane; the trees of the forest clashed and crackled, groaned and sawed their long arms against each other, creating an unusual and almost appalling noise; the wind howled round the palisades and fluttered the strips of bark on the roof, and as they all lay in bed, they could not sleep from the noise outside, and the increased feeling of cold. It was also the first trial of this new house in severe weather, and some of the wakeful party were anxiously watching the result. Toward the morning the storm abated, and every thing was again quiet. In consequence of the restless night which they had passed they were not so early as usual. Emma and Mary, when they came out of their room, found Martin and Alfred up and very busy with shovels; and, to their astonishment, they perceived that the snow was at least three feet deep on the ground, and in some places had been drifted up higher than their heads.

"Why, Alfred!" cried Emma; "how shall we be able to go after the cows this morning? This is, indeed, winter come on with little warning."

"It still snows," observed Mary; "not much, indeed, but the sky is very black."

"Yes, miss; we shall have some more of it yet," observed Martin. "Mr. Campbell and Henry have gone to the store-house for more shovels, for we must work hard, and clear a footpath, and then get the snow up against the palisades."

"What a sudden change," said Emma; "I wish the sky would clear, and then I should not care."

"It will to-morrow, Miss Emma, I dare say; but the snow must come down first."

Martin and Alfred had only time to clear a path to the store-house. Mr. Campbell and Henry returned with more shovels, and as soon as breakfast was over, they commenced work. As for Mary and Emma going to milk the cows, that was impossible. Martin undertook that task until they had cleared a pathway to the hunter's lodge, in which the animals were shut up every night.

By the advice of Martin, the snow next the palisades was piled up against the palings like a wall, as high as they could reach or throw it, by which means they got rid of the snow about the house, and at the same time formed a barrier against the freezing winds which they had to expect. All worked hard; Percival and John were of great use, and even Mrs. Campbell and the girls assisted collecting the remainder of the snow, and clearing it off the window-sills and other parts. By noon the snow left off falling, the sky cleared up, and the sun shone bright, although it gave out but little warmth.

After dinner they renewed their labors, and commenced clearing away a path to the lodge, where the cows were locked in, and before nightfall they had accomplished their task as far as the bridge over the stream, which was about half-way. It had been a day of great fatigue, and they were glad to retire to rest. Mrs. Campbell and the girls had put an additional supply of blankets and skins upon the beds, for the cold was now intense, and the thermometer stood far below the freezing point.

The following morning they resumed their task; the sky was still unclouded, and the sun shone out clear and bright. By dinner-time the path to the cow house had been completed; and the men then employed themselves in carrying as much fire-wood as they could, before it was dark, within the palisades.

"Well," observed Alfred, "now things may go on as usual within doors; and what have we to do out, Martin?"

"You must first get on your snow-shoes, and learn to walk in them," observed Martin; "or otherwise you'll be a prisoner as well as the ladies. You see, John, you're not at Malachi's lodge."

"Go to-morrow," replied John.

"No; not to-morrow, for I must go with you," said Martin; "I can not trust you for finding your way; and I can not go to-morrow nor the next day either. We must kill our beef to-morrow; there's no fear but it will keep all the winter now, and we shall save our hay."

"My larder is but poorly furnished," observed Mrs. Campbell.

"Never mind, ma'am, we'll soon have something in it, which will save our beef. In another week you shall have it well stocked."

"John," said Mr. Campbell, "recollect you must not go away without Martin."

"I won't," replied John.

All the game in the larder having been consumed, they sat down to salt pork and some of the fish which had been cured. The latter was pronounced to be excellent.

"What is the name of this fish, Martin?"

"It is called the white-fish," replied Martin, "and I have heard gentry from the old country say that they have none better, if any so good."

"It is certainly most excellent," replied Mr. Campbell, "and we will not forget to have a good provision for next winter, if it please God to spare our lives."

"Where were you born, Martin?" said Henry, as they were sitting round the kitchen fire, as usual in the evening.

"Why, Mr. Henry, I was born at Quebec. My father was a corporal in the army under General Wolfe, and was wounded in the great battle fought between him and the Frenchman Montcalm."

"In which both generals were killed, but the victory was to us."

"So I've heard, sir," replied Martin. "My mother was an English woman, and I was born about four years after the surrender of Quebec. My mother died soon afterward, but my father was alive about five years ago, I believe. I can't exactly say, as I was for three or four years in the employ of the Fur Company, and when I returned, I found that he was dead."

"And you have been a hunter all your life?"

"Not all my life, and not exactly a hunter. I call myself a trapper, but I still am both. I first was out with the Indians when I was about fourteen, for you see my father wanted to make me a drummer, and I could not stand that; so I said to him, 'Father, I won't be a drummer.' 'Well,' says he, 'Martin, you must help yourself, for all my interest lies in the army.' 'So I will,' says I; 'father, I'm off for the woods.' 'Well,' says he, 'just as you like, Martin.' So one fine day I wished him good-by, and did not see him again for more than two years."

"Well, and what took place then?"

"Why, I brought home three or four packages of good skins, and sold them well. Father was so pleased, that he talked of turning trapper himself, but, as I told the old man, a man with a lame leg—for he had been wounded in the leg and halted—would not make his livelihood by hunting in the woods of Canada."

"Was your father still in the army?"

"No, ma'am, he was not in the army; but he was employed in the storekeeper's department; they gave him the berth on account of his wound."

"Well, go on, Martin."

"I haven't much more to say, ma'am, I brought home my furs, sold them, and father helped me to spend the money as long as he was alive, and very welcome he was to his share. I felt rather queer when I came back from the Fur Company and found that the old man was dead, for I had looked forward with pleasure to the old man's welcome, and his enjoying his frolic with me as usual."

"I'm afraid those frolics were not very wise, Martin."

"No, sir, they were very foolish, I believe; but I fear it will always be the case with us trappers. We are like sailors, we do not know what to do with money when we get it; so we throw it away, and the sooner the better, for it is our enemy while we have it. I assure you, sir, that I used to feel quite happy when all my money was gone, and I was setting off to the woods again. It's a hard life, but a life that unfits you for any other; a life which you become very fond of. I don't mind being here with you by way of a change; indeed, as long as there is hunting, it is almost as good as if I were in the woods, but else I think I shall die a trapper."

"But, Martin," said Mr. Campbell, "how much more wise would it be to put your money by, and after a time purchase a farm and settle down a steady man with property, perhaps married and the father of a family."

"Perhaps it might be; but if I do not like it so well as trapping, I don't see why I should do so; it would be changing my life to please others and not myself."

"That's very true, Martin," said Alfred, laughing.

"Perhaps Martin may change his mind before he is an old man," replied Mrs. Campbell. "Dear me! what noise was that?" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell, as a melancholy howl was heard without.

"Only a rascally wolf, ma'am," said Martin; "we must expect the animals to be about us now that the snow has fallen, and the winter has set in."

"A wolf! are they not dangerous, Martin?" inquired Mary Percival.

"That depends, miss, how hungry they may be; but they are not very fond of attacking a human being; if we had any sheep outside, I fancy that they would stand a bad chance."

The howl was repeated, when one or two of the dogs which had been admitted into the house and were stretched before the fire, roused up and growled.

"They hear him, ma'am, and if we were to let them out, would soon be at him. No, no, John, sit still and put down your rifle; we can't afford to hurt wolves; their skins won't fetch a half-dollar, and their flesh is not fit for a clog, let alone a Christian. Let the vermin howl till he is tired; he'll be off to the woods again before daylight."

"There is certainly something very melancholy and dreadful to me in that howl," said Emma; "it frightens me."

"What, Emma, afraid?" said Alfred, going to her; "why yes, really she trembles; why, my dear Emma, do you recollect how frightened you and Mary were at the noise of the frogs when you first came here; you got used to it very soon, and so you will to the howl of a wolf."

"There is some difference, Alfred," replied Emma, shuddering as the howl was repeated. "I don't know how it is," said she, rallying her spirits, "but I believe it was reading Little Red Riding Hood when I was a child, which has given me such a horror of a wolf; I shall get over it very soon, I have no doubt."

"I must say, that it does not create the most agreeable sensation in my mind," observed Mrs. Campbell, "but I was aware of what we were to encounter when we came here, and if it is only to be annoyed with the cry of a wild beast, we may consider that we get off very cheaply."

"I should feel much more at ease, if all the rifles were loaded," said Mary Percival, in her usual quiet way.

LADY-MILKMAIDS. P. 142.

"And I too," said Emma.

"Well, then, if that will at all relieve your minds, it is easily done," said Mr. Campbell; "let us all load our rifles, and put them back in their rests."

"Mine's loaded," said John.

"And the rest soon shall be," said Alfred, "even the three appropriated for your use, mother and cousins. Now don't you feel some satisfaction in knowing you can load and fire them yourselves? the practice you had during the fine weather has not been thrown away, has it, dear Emma?"

"No, it has not, and I am very glad that I did learn it; I am a coward in apprehension, Alfred, but, perhaps, if I was put to the test, I should behave better."

"That I really believe," replied Alfred; "a gale of wind at sea sounds very awful when down below jerking about in your hammock, but when on deck, you don't care a fig about it. Now the rifles are all loaded, and we may go to bed and sleep sound." They did retire to rest, but all parties did not sleep very sound; the howling of one wolf was answered by another; Emma and Mary embraced each other, and shuddered as they heard the sounds, and it was long before they forgot their alarm and were asleep.

CHAPTER XVI

The next morning was bright and clear, and when Emma and Mary went out, attended by Alfred, to go and milk the cows, although the cold was intense, every thing looked so brilliant and sparkling in the sunshine that they regained their spirits. The lake was still unfrozen, and its waters, which were of an azure blue, contrasted with the whole of the country covered with snow, and the spruce firs with their branches loaded presented an alternate layer of pure white and of the darkest green. Birds there were none to be seen or heard. All was quiet, so quiet that as they stepped along the path which had been cleared away to the cow-house, they almost started at the sound of their own voices, which the atmosphere rendered more peculiarly sonorous and ringing. Alfred had his rifle on his shoulder, and walked in front of his cousins.

"I have come to prove that all your fears are groundless, my dear Emma, and that you need not have any alarm about a skulking, cowardly wolf," said Alfred.

"Well, that may be," replied Emma, "but still we are very glad of your company."

They arrived at the cow-house without any adventure, let loose Sancho, who had been tied up, as it was decided that the dog should remain at home with the others, and proceded to milk the cows. Having finished that task and supplied them with fodder, Mary Percival observed, as they were retracing their steps,

"I must say that it would not only be more convenient but more agreeable if the cows were kept nearer to the house."

"It would be certainly," replied Alfred. "It is a pity that there is not a cow-shed within the palisades; but we have no means of making one at present. Next year, when my father has purchased his horses and his sheep, which he talks of doing, we are to build a regular yard and sheds for all the animals close to the house, and palisaded round as the house now is, with a passage from one palisade to the other. Then it will be very convenient; but 'Rome was not built in a day,' as the proverb says; and we must, therefore, wait another winter."

"And be devoured by the wolves in the mean time," replied Emma, laughing.

"Why, you are getting over your fright already, Emma."

"Yes; I feel pretty bold, now I think there is nothing to be afraid of."

The remainder of the week was passed away in practicing upon the snow-shoes by the males of the party, the women scarcely ever venturing out of doors, as the cold was very severe. Mary and Emma were accompanied by Alfred for the first three or four days; and after that, notwithstanding that the howling of the wolves was heard every night, they took courage when they found that the animals never made their appearance by daylight, and went as before to milk the cows by themselves. On the Saturday, they were in the hopes of seeing old Malachi Bone, but he did not make his appearance, and John, who could now get on very well in his snow-shoes, became very impatient. Alfred and Martin were also very anxious to see the old man, that they might ascertain if he had made any discoveries relative to the Indians. Sunday, as usual, was a day of rest from labor; the services were read by Mr. Campbell, and the evening passed in serious conversation. Mr. Campbell, although usually in good spirits, was certainly not so on that evening: whether it was that the severity of the winter which had set in and the known long duration of it which they had to encounter had an effect upon his spirits, he was melancholy as well as serious. He more than once referred to the former residence when in England, which was a very unusual thing for him to do, and by degrees the conversation was turned in that direction, and, although no one said so, they all felt what a change there was in their present position from that which they had been forced to leave. Mrs. Campbell, who perceived that a gloom was gathering over the whole party, made several remarks tending to reconcile them to their present lot, and, after a time Mr. Campbell observed—

"Perhaps, my dear children, it may be a divine mercy which has sent you here to this wilderness; true it is that we are removed from civilization, and shut up here by a severe winter, deprived of the enjoyments and pleasures which are to be found in the society which we were compelled to leave; but let us also bear in mind that we are removed from the many temptations which might have there assailed us."

"But still, papa, you would be very glad if circumstances would permit us to return to England; would you not?" said Percival.

"Yes, my child, I should, and even if I had remained here so long as to have become attached to the place and to the isolation which at first is felt so irksome, I would still return to England and to society, if I had the means. As Christians, we are not to fly from the world and its temptations, but to buckle on our armor, and putting our trust in Him who will protect us, fight the good fight; that is, doing our duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call us."

"But if ever we were to return to England, there would be no chance of our living as we did before we left it, would there, papa?"

"I see none, my dear boy; but we never know what is in store for us. Should any of us ever return, I presume it would be to live in a more humble way; and for my part, I should prefer that it were so, for although I trust I did not greatly misuse that wealth which I so long supposed to be mine, I should not be sorry to have much less, and therefore less responsibility."

"Indeed, my dear Campbell, imperfect as we all are, I do not believe that many could have made a better use of it than you did."

"I thought so at the time, my dear," replied Mr. Campbell, "but since it has been lost to me, I have often thought that I might have done more good with it. But the fact is, my dear children, there is nothing so dangerous to our eternal welfare as great wealth; it tends to harden the heart by affording the means of constant self-indulgence:—under such circumstances, man is apt to become selfish, easily satisfied with his own works, and too proud to see his errors. Did you observe in the Litany, which I read at this morning's service, how very appropriately is inserted the prayer, for deliverance under the perils of wealth?—

"'In all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us.'

"Examine this, my dear children: in all time of our tribulation,—that is in poverty and distress, and perhaps famishing from want (and in few positions are people so incited to crime), then in all time of our wealth, evidently and distinctly placing wealth as more dangerous to the soul's welfare than the extremest poverty and its accompanying temptations; and observe, only exceeded by the most critical of all dangerous positions, when all has been done and nothing can be undone,—the hour of death, followed by the day of judgment."