COUNTRY LIFE IN CANADA FIFTY YEARS AGO

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS AND REMINISCENCES OF A SEXAGENARIAN.

By CANNIFF HAIGHT (1825-1901)

"Ah, happy years! Once more who would not be a boy?"
- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

TO THE YOUNG MEN OF CANADA,

UPON WHOSE INTEGRITY AND ENERGY OF CHARACTER THE FUTURE OF THIS GREAT HERITAGE OF OURS RESTS,

THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

When a man poses before the world--even the Canadian world--in the
_role_ of an author, he is expected to step up to the footlights,
and explain his purpose in presenting himself before the public in that
capacity.

The thoughts of the world are sown broadcast, very much as the seed
falls from the sweep of the husbandman's hand. It drops here and there,
in good ground and in stony places. Its future depends upon its
vitality. Many a fair seed has fallen on rich soil, and never reached
maturity. Many another has shot up luxuriantly, but in a short time has
been choked by brambles. Other seeds have been cast out with the chaff
upon the dung heap, and after various mutations, have come in contact
with a clod of earth, through which they have sent their roots, and have
finally grown into thrifty plants. A thought thrown out on the world, if
it possesses vital force, never dies. How much is remembered of the work
of our greatest men? Only a sentence here and there; and many a man
whose name will go down through all the ages, owes it to the truth or
the vital force of the thought embedded in a few brief lines.

I have very little to say respecting the volume here with presented to
the public. The principal contents appeared a short time ago in the
_Canadian Monthly_ and the _Canadian Methodist Magazine_. They
were written at a time when my way seemed hedged around with
insurmountable difficulties, and when almost anything that could afford
me a temporary respite from the mental anxieties that weighed me down,
not only during the day, but into the long hours of the night, would
have been welcomed. Like most unfortunates, I met Mr. Worldly Wiseman
from day to day. I always found him ready to point out the way I should
go and what I should do, but I have no recollection that he ever got the
breadth of a hair beyond that. One evening I took up my pen and began
jotting down a few memories of my boyhood. I think we are all fond of
taking retrospective glances, and more particularly when life's pathway
trends towards the end. The relief I found while thus engaged was very
soothing, and for the time I got altogether away from the present, and
lived over again many a joyous hour. After a time I had accumulated a
good deal of matter, such as it was, but the thought of publication had
not then entered my mind. One day, while in conversation with Dr.
Withrow, I mentioned what I had done, and he expressed a desire to see
what I had written. The papers were sent him, and in a short time he
returned them with a note expressing the pleasure the perusal of them
had afforded him, and advising me to submit them to the _Canadian
Monthly_ for publication. Sometime afterwards I followed his advice.
The portion of the papers that appeared in the last-named periodical
were favourably received, and I was much gratified not only by that, but
from private letters afterwards received from different parts of the
Dominion, conveying expressions of commendation which I had certainly
never anticipated. This is as much as need be said about the origin and
first publication of the papers which make up the principal part of this
volume. I do not deem it necessary to give any reasons for putting them
in book form; but I may say this: the whole has been carefully revised,
and in its present shape I hope will meet with a hearty welcome from a
large number of Canadians.

In conclusion, I wish to express my thanks to the Hon. J.C. Aikins,
Lieutenant-Governor of Manitoba, for information he procured for me at
the time of publication, and particularly to J.C. Dent, Esq., to whom I
am greatly indebted for many useful hints.


CONTENTS.

DEDICATION

PREFACE

CHAPTER I.

The prose and poetry of pioneer life in the backwoods--The log house--
Sugar making--An omen of good luck--My Quaker grandparents--The old
home--Winter evenings at the fireside--Rural hospitality--Aristocracy
_versus_ Democracy--School days--Debating societies in the olden
time--A rural orator clinches the nail--Cider, sweet and otherwise--
Husking in the barn--Hog killing and sausage making--Full cloth and
corduroy--Winter work and winter amusements--A Canadian skating song.

CHAPTER II.

The round of pioneer life--Game--Night fishing--More details about
sugar-making--Sugaring-off--Taking a hand at the old churn--Sheep-
washing--Country girls, then and now--Substance and Shadow--"Old Gray"
and his eccentricities--Harvest--My early emulation of Peter Paul
Rubens--Meeting-houses--Elia on Quaker meetings--Variegated autumn
landscapes--Logging and quilting bees--Evening fun--The touching lay of
the young woman who sat down to sleep.

CHAPTER III.

Progress, material and social--Fondness of the young for dancing--
Magisterial nuptials--The charivari--Goon-hunting--Catching a tartar--
Wild pigeons--The old Dutch houses--Delights of summer and winter
contrasted--Stilled voices.

CHAPTER IV.

The early settlers in Upper Canada--Prosperity, national and individual--
The old homes, without and within--Candle-making--Superstitions and
omens--The death-watch--Old almanacs--Bees--The divining rod--The U. E.
Loyalists--Their sufferings and heroism--An old and a new price list--
Primitive horologes--A jaunt in one of the conventional "carriages" of
olden times--Then and now--A note of warning

CHAPTER V.

Jefferson's definition of "Liberty"--How it was acted upon--The Canadian
renaissance--Burning political questions in Canada half a century ago--
Locomotion--Mrs. Jameson on Canadian stagecoaches--Batteaux and Durham
boats

CHAPTER VI.

Road-making--Weller's line of stages and steamboats--My trip from
Hamilton to Niagara--Schools and colleges--Pioneer Methodist Preachers--
Solemnization of matrimony--Literature and libraries--Early newspapers--
Primitive editorial articles

CHAPTER VII.

Banks--Insurance--Marine--Telegraph companies--Administration of
Justice--Milling and manufactures--Rapid increase of population in
cities and towns--Excerpts from Andrew Picken

SKETCHES OF EARLY HISTORY:--

Early schools and schoolmasters--Birth of the American Republic--Love
of country--Adventures of a U.E. Loyalist family ninety years ago--The
wilds of Upper Canada--Hay bay--Hardships of pioneer life--Growth of
population--Division of the Canadian Provinces--Fort Frontenac--The
"dark days"--Celestial fireworks--Early steam navigation in Canada--The
country merchant Progress--The Hare and the Tortoise

RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS EARLY DAYS

Paternal memories--A visit to the home of my boyhood--The old Quaker
meeting-house--Flashes of silence--The old burying ground--"To the
memory of Eliza"--Ghostly experiences--Hiving the Bees--Encounter with a
bear--Giving "the mitten"--A "boundary question"--Song of the bullfrog--
Ring--Sagacity of animals--Training-days--Picturesque scenery on the
Bay of Quinte--John A. Macdonald--A perilous journey--Aunt Jane and
Willet Casey


CHAPTER I.

  "I talk of dreams,
  For you and I are past our dancing days."
--_Romeo and Juliet_.

THE PROSE AND POETRY OF PIONEER LIFE IN THE BACKWOODS--THE LOG HOUSE--
SUGAR MAKING--AN OMEN OF GOOD LUCK--MY QUAKER GRANDPARENTS--THE OLD
HOME--WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FIRESIDE--RURAL HOSPITALITY--ARISTOCRACY
versus DEMOCRACY--SCHOOL DAYS--DEBATING SOCIETIES IN THE OLDEN TIME--A
RURAL ORATOR CLINCHES THE NAIL--CIDER, SWEET AND OTHERWISE--HUSKING IN
THE BARN--HOG KILLING AND SAUSAGE MAKING--FULL CLOTH AND CORDUROY--
WINTER WORK AND WINTER AMUSEMENTS--A CANADIAN SKATING SONG.

I was born in the County of ----, Upper Canada, on the 4th day of June,
in the early part of this present century. I have no recollection of my
entry into the world, though I was present when the great event
occurred; but I have every reason to believe the date given is correct,
for I have it from my mother and father, who were there at the time, and
I think my mother had pretty good reason to know all about it. I was the
first of the family, though my parents had been married for more than
five years before I presented myself as their hopeful heir, and to
demand from them more attention than they anticipated. "Children," says
the Psalmist, "are an heritage, and he who hath his quiver full of them
shall not be ashamed; they shall speak with the enemies in the gate." I
do not know what effect this had on my father's enemies, if he had any;
but later experience has proved to me that those who rear a numerous
progeny go through a vast deal of trouble and anxiety. At any rate I
made my appearance on the stage, and began my performance behind the
footlights of domestic bliss. I must have been a success, for I called
forth a great deal of applause from my parents, and received their
undivided attention. But other actors came upon the boards in more rapid
succession, so that in a few years the quiver of my father was well
filled, and he might have met "his enemies in the gate."

My father, when he married, bought a farm. Of course it was all woods.
Such were the only farms available for young folk to commence life with
in those days. Doubtless there was a good deal of romance in it. Love in
a cot; the smoke gracefully curling; the wood-pecker tapping, and all
that; very pretty. But alas, in this work-a-day world, particularly the
new one upon which my parents then entered, these silver linings were
not observed. They had too much of the prose of life.

A house was built--a log one, of the Canadian rustic style then much in
vogue, containing one room, and that not very large either; and to this
my father brought his young bride. Their outfit consisted, on his part,
of a colt, a yoke of steers, a couple of sheep, some pigs, a gun, and an
axe. My mother's _dot_ comprised a heifer, bed and bedding, a table
and chairs, a chest of linen, some dishes, and a few other necessary
items with which to begin housekeeping. This will not seem a very lavish
set-out for a young couple on the part of parents who were at that time
more than usually well-off. But there was a large family on both sides,
and the old people then thought it the better way to let the young folk
try their hand at making a living before they gave them of their
abundance. If they succeeded they wouldn't need much, and if they did
not, it would come better after a while.

My father was one of a class of young men not uncommon in those days,
who possessed energy and activity. He was bound to win. What the old
people gave was cheerfully accepted, and he went to work to acquire the
necessaries and comforts of life with his own hands. He chopped his way
into the stubborn wood and added field to field. The battle had now been
waged for seven or eight years; an addition had been made to the house;
other small comforts had been added, and the nucleus of future
competence fairly established.

One of my first recollections is in connection with the small log barn
he had built, and which up to that date had not been enlarged. He
carried me out one day in his arms, and put me in a barrel in the middle
of the floor. This was covered with loosened sheaves of wheat, which he
kept turning over with a wooden fork, while the oxen and horse were
driven round and round me. I did not know what it all meant then, but I
afterwards learned that he was threshing. This was one of the first rude
scenes in the drama of the early settlers' life to which I was
introduced, and in which I had to take a more practical part in after
years. I took part, also, very early in life, in sugar-making. The sap-
bush was not very far away from the house, and the sap-boiling was under
the direction of my mother, who mustered all the pots and kettles she
could command, and when they were properly suspended over the fire on
wooden hooks, she watched them, and rocked me in a sap-trough. Father's
work consisted in bringing in the sap with two pails, which were carried
by a wooden collar about three feet long, and made to fit the shoulder,
from each end of which were fastened two cords with hooks to receive the
bail of the pails, leaving the arms free except to steady them. He had
also to cut wood for the fire. I afterwards came to take a more active
part in these duties, and used to wish I could go back to my primitive
cradle. But time pushed me on whether I would or not, until I scaled the
mountain top of life's activities; and now, when quietly descending into
the valley, my gaze is turned affectionately towards those early days. I
do not think they were always bright and joyous, and I am sure I often
chafed under the burdens imposed upon me; but how inviting they seem
when viewed through the golden haze of retrospection.

My next recollection is the raising of a frame barn behind the house,
and of a niece of my father's holding me in her arms to see the men
pushing up the heavy "bents" with long poles. The noise of the men
shouting and driving in the wooden pins with great wooden beetles, away
up in the beams and stringers, alarmed me a great deal, but it all went
up, and then one of the men mounted the plate (the timber on which the
foot of the rafter rests) with a bottle in his hand, and swinging it
round his head three times, threw it off in the field. If the bottle was
unbroken it was an omen of good luck. The bottle, I remember, was picked
up whole, and shouts of congratulation followed. Hence, I suppose, the
prosperity that attended my father.

The only other recollection I have of this place was of my father, who
was a very ingenious man, and could turn his hand to almost everything,
making a cradle for my sister, for this addition to our number had
occurred. I have no remembrance of any such fanciful crib being made for
my slumbers. Perhaps the sap-trough did duty for me in the house as well
as in the bush. The next thing was our removal, which took place in the
winter, and all that I can recall of it is that my uncle took my mother,
sister, and myself away in a sleigh, and we never returned to the little
log house. My father had sold his farm, bought half of his old home, and
come to live with his parents. They were Quakers. My grandfather was a
short, robust old man, and very particular about his personal
appearance. Half a century has elapsed since then, but the picture of
the old man taking his walks about the place, in his closely-fitting
snuff-brown cut-away coat, knee-breeches, broad-brimmed hat and silver-
headed cane is distinctively fixed in my memory. He died soon after we
took up our residence with him, and the number who came from all parts
of the country to the funeral was a great surprise to me. I could not
imagine where so many people came from. The custom prevailed then, and
no doubt does still, when a death occurred, to send a messenger, who
called at every house for many miles around to give notice of the death,
and of when and where the interment would take place.

[Illustration: THE FIRST HOME.]

My grandmother was a tall, neat, motherly old woman, beloved by
everybody. She lived a number of years after her husband's death, and I
seem to see her now, sitting at one side of the old fire-place knitting.
She was always knitting, and turning out scores of thick warm socks and
mittens for her grandchildren.

At this time a great change had taken place, both in the appearance of
the country and in the condition of the people. It is true that many of
the first settlers had ceased from their labours, but there were a good
many left--old people now, who were quietly enjoying, in their declining
years, the fruit of their early industry. Commodious dwellings had taken
the place of the first rude houses. Large frame barns and outhouses had
grown out of the small log ones. The forest in the immediate
neighbourhood had been cleared away, and well-tilled fields occupied its
place. Coarse and scanty fare had been supplanted by a rich abundance of
all the requisites that go to make home a scene of pleasure and
contentment. Altogether a substantial prosperity was apparent. A genuine
content and a hearty good will, one towards another, existed in all the
older parts. The settled part as yet, however, formed only a very narrow
belt extending along the bay and lake shores. The great forest lay close
at hand in the rear, and the second generation, as in the case of my
father, had only to go a few miles to find it, and commence for
themselves the laborious struggle of clearing it away.

The old home, as it was called, was always a place of attraction, and
especially so to the young people, who were sure of finding good cheer
at grandfather's. What fun, after the small place called home, to have
the run of a dozen rooms, to haunt the big cellar, with its great heaps
of potatoes and vegetables, huge casks of cider, and well-filled bins of
apples, or to sit at the table loaded with the good things which
grandmother only could supply. How delicious the large piece of pumpkin
pie tasted, and how toothsome the rich crullers that melted in the
mouth! Dear old body! I can see her now going to the great cupboard to
get me something saying as she goes, "I'm sure the child is hungry." And
it was true, he was always hungry; and how he managed to stow away so
much is a mystery I cannot now explain. There was no place in the world
more to be desired than this, and no spot in all the past the
recollection of which is more bright and joyous.

My father now assumed the management of affairs. The old people reserved
one room to themselves, but it was free to all, particularly to us
children. It was hard to tell sometimes which to choose, whether the
kitchen, where the family were gathered round the cheerful logs blazing
brightly in the big fire-place, or a stretch on the soft rag-carpet
beside the box stove in grandmother's room. This room was also a
sanctuary to which we often fled to escape punishment after doing some
mischief. We were sure of an advocate there, if we could reach it in
time.

The house was a frame one, as nearly all the best houses were in those
days, and was painted a dark yellow. There were two kitchens, one used
for washing and doing the heavier household work in; the other,
considerably larger, was used by the family. In the latter was the large
fire-place, around which gathered in the winter time bright and happy
faces; where the old men smoked their pipes in peaceful reverie, or
delighted us with stories of other days; where mother darned her socks,
and father mended our boots; where the girls were sewing, and uncles
were scraping axe-handles with bits of glass, to make them smooth. There
were no drones in farm-houses then; there was something for every one to
do. At one side of the fire-place was the large brick oven with its
gaping mouth, closed with a small door, easily removed, where the bread
and pies were baked. Within the fire-place was an iron crane securely
fastened in the jamb, and made to swing in and out with its row of iron
pot-hooks of different lengths, on which to hang the pots used in
cooking. Cook stoves had not yet appeared to cheer the housewife and
revolutionize the kitchen. Joints of meat and poultry were roasted on
turning spits, or were suspended before the fire by a cord and wire
attached to the ceiling. Cooking was attended with more difficulties
then. Meat was fried in long-handled pans, and the short-cake that so
often graced the supper table, and played such havoc with the butter and
honey, with the pancakes that came piping hot on the breakfast table,
owed their finishing touch to the frying pan. The latter, however, were
more frequently baked on a large griddle with a bow handle made to hook
on the crane. This, on account of its larger surface, enabled the cook
to turn out these much-prized cakes, when properly made, with greater
speed; and in a large family an expert hand was required to keep up the
supply. Some years later an ingenious Yankee invented what was called a
"Reflector," made of bright tin for baking. It was a small tin oven with
a slanting top, open at one side, and when required for use was set
before the fire on the hearth. This simple contrivance was a great
convenience, and came into general use. Modern inventions in the
appliances for cooking have very much lessened the labour and increased
the possibilities of supplying a variety of dishes, but it has not
improved the quality of them. There were no better caterers to hungry
stomachs than our mothers, whose practical education had been received
in grandmother's kitchen. The other rooms of the house comprised a
sitting-room--used only when there was company--a parlour, four
bedrooms, and the room reserved for the old people. Up-stairs were the
sleeping and store-rooms. In the hall stood the tall old fashioned house
clock, with its long pendulum swinging to and fro with slow and measured
beat. Its face had looked upon the venerable sire before his locks were
touched with the frost of age. When his children were born it indicated
the hour, and it had gone on telling off the days and years until the
children were grown. And when a wedding day had come, it had rung a
joyful peal through the house, and through the years the old hands had
travelled on, the hammer had struck off the hours, and another
generation had come to look upon it and grow familiar with its constant
tick.

[Illustration: GRANDFATHER'S.]

The furniture was plain and substantial, more attention being given to
durability than to style or ornament. Easy chairs--save the spacious
rocking-chair for old women--and lounges were not seen. There was no
time for lolling on well-stuffed cushions. The rooms were heated with
large double box stoves, very thick and heavy, made at Three Rivers; and
by their side was always seen a large wood-box, well filled with sound
maple or beech wood. But few pictures adorned the walls, and these were
usually rude prints far inferior to those we get every day now from the
illustrated papers. Books, so plentiful and cheap now-a-days, were then
very scarce, and where a few could be found, they were mostly heavy
doctrinal tomes piled away on some shelf where they were allowed to
remain.

The home we now inhabited was altogether a different one from that we
had left in the back concession, but it was like many another to be
found along the bay shore. Besides my own family, there were two younger
brothers of my father, and two grown-up nieces, so that when we all
mustered round the table, there was a goodly number of hearty people
always ready to do justice to the abundant provision made. This reminds
me of an incident or two illustrative of the lavish manner with which a
well-to-do farmer's table was supplied in those days. A Montreal
merchant and his wife were spending an evening at a very highly-esteemed
farmer's house. At the proper time supper was announced, and the
visitors, with the family, were gathered round the table, which groaned,
metaphorically speaking, under the load it bore. There were turkey, beef
and ham, bread and the favourite short cake, sweet cakes in endless
variety, pies, preserves, sauces, tea, coffee, cider, and what not. The
visitors were amazed, as they might well be, at the lavish display of
cooking, and they were pressed, with well-meant kindness, to partake
heartily of everything. They yielded good-naturedly to the entreaties to
try this and that as long as they could, and paused only when it was
impossible to take any more. When they were leaving, the merchant asked
his friend when they were coming to Montreal, and insisted that they
should come soon, promising if they would only let him know a little
before when they were coming he would buy up everything there was to be
had in the market for supper. On another occasion an English gentleman
was spending an evening at a neighbour's, and, as usual, the supper
table was crowded with everything the kind-hearted hostess could think
of. The guest was plied with dish after dish, and, thinking it would be
disrespectful if he did not take something from each, he continued to
eat, and take from the dishes as they were passed, until he found his
plate, and all the available space around him, heaped up with cakes and
pie. To dispose of all he had carefully deposited on his plate and
around it seemed utterly impossible, and yet he thought he would be
considered rude if he did not finish what he had taken, and he struggled
on, with the perspiration visible on his face, until in despair he asked
to be excused, as he could not eat any more if it were to save his life.

It was the custom in those days for the hired help (the term servant was
not used) to sit at the table, with the family. On one occasion, a
Montreal merchant prince was on a visit at a wealthy Quaker's, who owned
a large farm, and employed a number of men in the summer. It was
customary in this house for the family to seat themselves first at the
head of the table, after which the hired hands all came in, and took the
lower end. This was the only distinction. They were served just as the
rest of the family. On this occasion the guest came out with the family,
and they were seated. Then the hired men and girls came in and did the
same, whereupon the merchant left the table and the room. The old lady,
thinking there was something the matter with the man, soon after
followed him into the sitting-room, and asked him if he was ill. He said
"No." "Then why did thee leave the table?" thee old lady enquired.
"Because," said he, "I am not accustomed to eat with servants." "Very
well," replied the old lady, "if thee cannot eat with us, thee will have
to go without thy dinner." His honour concluded to pocket his dignity,
and submit to the rules of the house.

I was sent to school early--more, I fancy, to get me out of the way for
a good part of the day, than from any expectation that I would learn
much. It took a long time to hammer the alphabet into my head. But if I
was dull at school, I was noisy and mischievous enough at home, and very
fond of tormenting my sisters. Hence, my parents--and no child ever had
better ones--could not be blamed very much if they did send me to school
for no other reason than to be rid of me. The school house was close at
hand, and its aspect is deeply graven in my memory. My first
schoolmaster was an Englishman who had seen better days. He was a good
scholar, I believe, but a poor teacher. The school house was a small
square structure, with low ceiling. In the centre of the room was a box
stove, around which the long wooden benches without backs were ranged.
Next the walls were the desks, raised a little from the floor. In the
summer time the pupils were all of tender years, the elder ones being
kept at home to help with the work. At the commencement of my
educational course I was one of a little lot of urchins ranged daily on
hard wooden seats, with our feet dangling in the air, for seven or eight
hours a day. In such a plight we were expected to be very good children,
to make no noise, and to learn our lessons. It is a marvel that so many
years had to elapse before parents and teachers could be brought to see
that keeping children in such a position for so many hours was an act of
great cruelty. The terror of the rod was the only thing that could keep
us still, and that often failed. Sometimes, tired and weary, we fell
asleep and tumbled off the bench, to be roused by the fall and the rod.
In the winter time the small school room was filled to overflowing with
the larger boys and girls. This did not improve our condition, for we
were mere closely packed together, and were either shivering with the
cold or being cooked with the red-hot stove. In a short time after, the
old school house, where my father, I believe, had got his schooling, was
hoisted on runners, and, with the aid of several yoke of oxen, was taken
up the road about a mile and enlarged a little. This event brought my
course of study to an end for a while. I next sat under the rod of an
Irish pedagogue--an old man who evidently believed that the only way to
get anything into a boy's head was to pound it in with a stick through
his back. There was no discipline, and the noise we made seemed to rival
a Bedlam. We used to play all sorts of tricks on the old man, and I was
not behind in contriving or carrying them into execution. One day,
however, I was caught and severely thrashed. This so mortified me, that
I jumped out of the window and went home. An investigation followed, and
I was whipped by my father and sent back. Poor old Dominic, he has long
since put by his stick, and passed beyond the reach of unruly boys. Thus
I passed on from teacher to teacher, staying at home in the summer, and
resuming my books again in the winter. Sometimes I went to the old
school house up the road, sometimes to the one in an opposite direction.
The latter was larger, and there was generally a better teacher, but it
was much farther, and I had to set off early in the cold frosty mornings
with my books and dinner basket, often through deep snow and drifts. At
night I had to get home in time to help to feed the cattle and get in
the wood for the fires. The school houses then were generally small and
uncomfortable, and the teachers were often of a very inferior order. The
school system of Canada, which has since been moulded by the skilful
hand of Dr. Ryerson into one of the best in the world, and which will
give to his industry and genius a more enduring record than stone or
brass, was in my day very imperfect indeed. It was, perhaps, up with
the times. But when the advantages which the youth of this country now
possess are compared with the small facilities we had of picking up a
little knowledge, it seems almost a marvel that we learned anything.
Spelling matches came at this time into vogue, and were continued for
several years. They occasioned a friendly rivalry between schools, and
were productive of good. The meetings took place during the long winter
nights, either weekly or fortnightly. Every school had one or more prize
spellers, and these were selected to lead the match; or if the school
was large, a contest between the girls and boys came off first.
Sometimes two of the best spellers were selected by the scholars as
leaders, and these would proceed to 'choose sides;' that is, one would
choose a fellow pupil, who would rise and take his or her place, and
then the other, continuing until the list was exhausted. The
preliminaries being completed, the contest began. At first the lower end
of the class was disposed of, and as time wore on one after another
would make a slip and retire, until two or three only were left on
either side. Then the struggle became exciting, and scores of eager eyes
were fixed on the contestants. With the old hands there was a good deal
of fencing, though the teacher usually had a reserve of difficult words
to end the fight, which often lasted two or three hours. He failed
sometimes, and then it was a drawn battle to be fought on another
occasion.

Debating classes also met and discussed grave questions, upon such old-
fashioned subjects as these:

"Which is the more useful to man, wood or iron?" "Which affords the
greater enjoyment, anticipation or participation?" "Which was the
greater general, Wellington or Napoleon?" Those who were to take part in
the discussion were always selected at a previous meeting, so that all
that had to be done was to select a chairman and commence the debate. I
can give from memory a sample or two of these first attempts. "Mr.
President, Ladies and Gentlemen: Unaccustomed as I am to public
speaking, I rise to make a few remarks on this all important question--
ahem--Mr. President, this is the first time I ever tried to speak in
public, and unaccustomed as I am to--to--ahem. Ladies and Gentlemen, I
think our opponents are altogether wrong in arguing that Napoleon was a
greater general than Wellington--ahem--I ask you, Mr. President, did
Napoleon ever thrash Wellington? Didn't Wellington always thrash him,
Mr. President? Didn't he whip him at Waterloo and take him prisoner? and
then to say that he is a greater general than Wellington--why, Mr.
President, he couldn't hold a candle to him. Ladies and Gentlemen, I say
that Napoleon wasn't a match for him at all. Wellington licked him every
time--and--yes, licked him every time. I can't think of any more, Mr.
President, and I will take my seat, Sir, by saying that I'm sure you
will decide in our favour from the strong arguments our side has
produced."

After listening to such powerful reasoning, some one of the older
spectators would ask Mr. President to be allowed to say a few words on
some other important question to be debated, and would proceed to air
his eloquence and instruct the youth on such a topic as this: "Which is
the greater evil, a scolding wife or a smoky chimney?" After this wise
the harangue would proceed:--"Mr. President, I have been almost mad a-
listening to the debates of these 'ere youngsters--they don't know
nothing at all about the subject. What do they know about the evil of a
scolding wife? Wait till they have had one for twenty years, and been
hammered, and jammed, and slammed, all the while. Wait till they've been
scolded because the baby cried, because the fire wouldn't burn, because
the room was too hot, because the cow kicked over the milk, because it
rained, because the sun shined, because the hens didn't lay, because the
butter wouldn't come, because the old cat had kittens, because they came
too soon for dinner, because they were a minute late--before they talk
about the worry of a scolding wife. Why Mr. President, I'd rather hear
the clatter of hammers and stones and twenty tin pans, and nine brass
kettles, than the din, din, din of the tongue of a scolding woman; yes,
sir, I would. To my mind, Mr. President, a smoky chimney is no more to
be compared to a scolding wife than a little nigger is to a dark night."
These meetings were generally well attended, and conducted with
considerable spirit. If the discussions were not brilliant, and the
young debater often lost the thread of his argument--in other words, got
things "mixed"--he gained confidence, learned to talk in public, and to
take higher flights. Many of our leading public men learned their first
lessons in the art of public speaking in the country debating school.

Apple trees were planted early by the bay settlers, and there were now
numerous large orchards of excellent fruit. Pears, plums, cherries,
currants and gooseberries were also common. The apple crop was gathered
in October, the best fruit being sent to the cellar for family use
during winter, and the rest to the cider mill.

The cider mills of those days were somewhat rude contrivances. The mill
proper consisted of two cogged wooden cylinders about fourteen inches in
diameter and perhaps twenty-six inches in length, placed in an upright
position in a frame. The pivot of one of these extended upward about six
feet, and at its top was secured the long shaft to which the horse was
attached, and as it was driven round and round, the mill crunched the
apples, with many a creak and groan, and shot them out on the opposite
side. The press which waited to receive the bruised mass was about eight
feet square, round the floor of which, near the edge, ran a deep groove
to carry off the juice. In making what is known as the cheese, the first
process was to spread a thick layer of long rye or wheat straw round the
outer edge, on the floor of the press. Upon this the pulp was placed to
the depth of a foot or more. The first layer of straw was then turned in
carefully, and another layer of straw put down as in the first place,
upon which more pulp was placed, and so on from layer to layer, until
the cheese was complete. Planks were then placed on the top, and the
pressure of the powerful wooden screw brought to bear on the mass. At
once a copious stream of cider began to flow into the casks or vat, and
here the fun began with the boys, who, well armed with long straws,
sucked their fill.

  By the roadside stands the cider mill,
  Where a lowland slumber waits the rill:

  A great brown building, two stories high,
  On the western hill face warm and dry;

  And odorous piles of apples there
  Fill with incense the golden air;

  And masses of pomace, mixed with straw,
  To their amber sweets the late flies draw.

  The carts back up to the upper door,
  And spill their treasures in on the floor;

  Down through the toothed wheels they go
  To the wide, deep cider press below.

  And the screws are turned by slow degrees
  Down on the straw-laid cider cheese;

  And with each turn a fuller stream
  Bursts from beneath the graning beam,

  An amber stream the gods might sip,
  And fear no morrow's parched lip.

  But therefore, gods? Those idle toys
  Were soulless to real _Canadian_ boys!

  What classic goblet ever felt
  Such thrilling touches through it melt,

  As throb electric along a straw,
  When the boyish lips the cider draw?

  The years are heavy with weary sounds,
  And their discords life's sweet music drowns

  But yet I hear, oh, sweet! oh, sweet!
  The rill that bathed my bare, brown feet;

  And yet the cider drips and falls
  On my inward ear at intervals

  And I lead at times in a sad, sweet dream
  To the bubbling of that little stream;

  And I sit in a visioned autumn still,
  In the sunny door of the cider mill.

--WHITTIER.

It was a universal custom to set a dish of apples and a pitcher of cider
before everyone who came to the house. Any departure from this would
have been thought disrespectful. The sweet cider was generally boiled
down into a syrup, and, with apples quartered and cooked in it, was
equal to a preserve, and made splendid pies. It was called apple sauce,
and found its way to the table thrice a day.

Then came the potatoes and roots, which had to be dug and brought to the
cellar. It was not very nice work, particularly if the ground was damp
and cold, to pick them out and throw them into the basket, but it had to
be done, and I was compelled to do my share. One good thing about it was
that it was never a long job. There was much more fun in gathering the
pumpkins and corn into the barn. The corn was husked, generally at
night, the bright golden ears finding their way into the old crib, from
whence it was to come again to fatten the turkeys, the geese, and the
ducks for Christmas. It was a very common thing to have husking bees. A
few neighbours would be invited, the barn lit with candles.

  Strung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow,
  Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scenes below;
  The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,
  And laughing eyes, and busy hand, and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.

  Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,
  Talking their old times o'er, the old men sat apart;
  While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade,
  At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.

--WHITTIER.

Amid jokes and laughter the husks and ears would fly, until the work was
done, when all hands would repair to the house, and, after partaking of
a hearty supper, leave for home in high spirits.

Then came hog-killing time, a very heavy and disagreeable task, but the
farmer has many of these, and learns to take them pleasantly. My father,
with two or three expert hands dressed for the occasion, would slaughter
and dress ten or a dozen large hogs in the course of a day. There were
other actors besides in the play. It would be curious, indeed, if all
hands were not employed when work was going on. My part in the
performance was to attend to the fire under the great kettle in which
the hogs were scalded, and to keep the water boiling, varied at
intervals by blowing up bladders with a quill for my own amusement. In
the house the fat had to be looked to, and after being washed and tried
(the term used for melting), was poured into dishes and set aside to
cool and become lard, afterwards finding its way into cakes and
piecrust. The out-door task does not end with the first day either, for
the hogs have to be carried in and cut up; the large meat tubs, in which
the family supplies are kept, have to be filled; the hams and shoulders
to be nicely cut and cured, and the rest packed into barrels for sale.

Close on the heels of hog-killing came sausage-making, when meat had to
be chopped and flavoured, and stuffed into cotton bags or prepared gut.
Then the heads and feet had to be soaked and scraped over and over
again, and when ready were boiled, the one being converted into head-
cheese, the other into souse. All these matters, when conducted under
the eye of a good housewife, contributed largely to the comfort and good
living of the family. Who is there, with such an experience as mine,
that receives these things at the hands of his city butcher and meets
them on his table, who does not wish for the moment that he was a boy,
and seated at his mother's board, that he might shake off the phantom
canine and feline that rise on his plate, and call in one of mother's
sausages.

As the fall crept on, the preparations for winter increased. The large
roll of full cloth, which had been lately brought from the mill, was
carried down, and father and I set out for a tailor, who took our
measurements and cut our clothes, which we brought home, and some woman,
or perhaps a wandering tailor, was employed to make them up. There was
no discussion as to style, and if the fit did not happen to be perfect,
there was no one to criticise either the material or the make, nor were
there any arbitrary rules of fashion to be respected. We had new
clothes, which were warm and comfortable. What more did we want? A
cobbler, too, was brought in to make our boots. My father was quite an
expert at shoemaking, but he had so many irons in the fire now that he
could not do more than mend or make a light pair of shoes for mother at
odd spells. The work then turned out by the sons of St. Crispin was not
highly finished. It was coarse, but, what was of greater consequence, it
was strong, and wore well. While all this was going on for the benefit
of the male portion of the house, mother and the girls were busy turning
the white flannels into shirts and drawers, and the plaid roll that came
with it into dresses for themselves. As in the case of our clothes,
there was no consulting of fashion-books, for a very good reason,
perhaps--there was none to consult. No talk about Miss Brown or Miss
Smith having her dress made this way or that; and I am sure they were
far happier and contented than the girls of to-day, with all their show
and glitter.

The roads at that time, more particularly in the fall, were almost
impassable until frozen up. In the spring, until the frost was out of
the ground, and they had settled and dried, they were no better. The
bridges were rough, wooden affairs, covered with logs, usually flattened
on one side with an axe. The swamps and marshes were made passable by
laying down logs, of nearly equal size, close together in the worst
places. These were known as corduroy roads, and were no pleasant
highways to ride over for any distance, as all who have tried them know.
But in the winter the frost and snow made good traveling everywhere, and
hence the winter was the time for the farmer to do his teaming.

One of the first things that claimed attention when the sleighing began,
and before the snow got deep in the woods, was to get out the year's
supply of fuel. The men set out for the bush before it was fairly
daylight, and commenced chopping. The trees were cut in lengths of about
ten feet, and the brush piled in heaps. Then my father, or myself, when
I got old enough, followed with the sleigh, and began drawing it, until
the wood yard was filled with sound beech and maple, with a few loads of
dry pine for kindling. These huge wood-piles always bore a thrifty
appearance, and spoke of comfort and good cheer within.

Just before Christmas there was always one or two beef cattle to kill.
Sheep had also to be slaughtered, with the turkeys, geese and ducks,
which had been getting ready for decapitation. After home wants were
provided for, the rest were sent to market.

The winter's work now began in earnest, for whatever may be said about
the enjoyment of Canadian winter life--and it is an enjoyable time to
the Canadian--there are few who really enjoy it so much as the farmer.
He cannot, however, do like bruin--roll himself up in the fall, and suck
his paw until spring in a state of semi-unconsciousness, for his cares
are numerous and imperious, his work varied and laborious. His large
stock demands regular attention, and must be fed morning and night. The
great barn filled with grain had to be threshed, for the cattle needed
the straw, and the grain had to be got out for the market. So day after
day he and his men hammered away with the flail, or spread the sheaves
on the barn floor to be trampled out by horses. Threshing machines were
unknown then, as were all the labour-saving machines now so extensively
used by the farmer. His muscular arm was the only machine he then had to
rely upon, and if it did not accomplish much, it succeeded in doing its
work well, and in providing him with all his modest wants. Then the
fanning mill came into play to clean the grain, after which it was
carried to the granary, whence again it was taken either to the mill or
to market. Winter was also the time to get out the logs from the woods,
and to haul them to the mill to be sawed in the spring--we always had a
use for boards. These saw mills, built on sap-streams, which ran dry as
soon as the spring freshets were over, were like the cider mills, small
rough structures. They had but one upright saw, which, owing to its
primitive construction, did not move as now, with lightning rapidity,
nor did it turn out a very large quantity of stuff. It answered the
purpose of the day, however, and that was all that was required or
expected of it. Rails, also, had to be split and drawn to where new
fences were wanted, or where old ones needed repairs. There were flour,
beef, mutton, butter, apples, and a score more of things to be taken to
market and disposed of. But, notwithstanding all this, the winter was a
good, joyful time for the farmer--a time, moreover, when the social
requisites of his nature received the most attention. Often the horses
would be put to the sleigh, and we would set off, well bundled up, to
visit some friends a few miles distant, or, as frequently happened, to
visit an uncle or an aunt, far away in the new settlements. The roads
often wound along for miles through the forest, and it was great fun for
us youngsters to be dashing along behind a spirited team, now around the
trunks of great trees, or under the low-hanging boughs of the spruce or
cedar, laden with snow, which sometimes shed their heavy load upon our
head. But after a while the cold would seize upon us, and we would wish
our journey at an end.

The horses, white with frost, would then be pressed on faster, and would
bring us at length to the door. In a few moments we would all be seated
round the glowing fire, which would soon quiet our chattering teeth,
thaw us out, and prepare us to take our places at the repast which had
been getting ready in the meantime. We were sure to do justice to the
good things which the table provided.

Many of these early days start up vividly and brightly before me,
particularly since I have grown to manhood, and lived amid other
surroundings. Among the most pleasing of these recollections are some of
my drives on a moonlight night, when the sleighing was good, and when
the sleigh, with its robes and rugs, was packed with a merry lot of
girls and boys (we had no ladies and gentlemen then). Off we would set,
spanking along over the crisp snow, which creaked and cracked under the
runners, making a low murmuring sound in harmony with the sleigh-bells.
When could a more fitting time be found for a pleasure-ride than on one
of those clear calm nights; when the earth, wrapped in her mantle of
snow, glistened and sparkled in the moonbeams, and the blue vault of
heaven glittered with countless stars, whose brilliancy seemed
intensified by the cold--when the aurora borealis waved and danced
across the northern sky, and the frost noiselessly fell like flakes of
silver upon a scene at once inspiriting, exhilarating and joyous! How
the merry laugh floated along in the evening air, as we dashed along the
road! How sweetly the merry song and chorus echoed through the silent
wood; while our hearts were aglow with excitement, and all nature seemed
to respond to the happy scene!

When the frosty nights set in, we were always on the _qui vive_ for
a skating revel on some pond near by, and our eagerness to enjoy the
sport frequently led to a ducking. But very soon the large ponds, and
then the bay, were frozen over, when we could indulge in the fun to our
heart's content. My first attempts were made under considerable
difficulties, but perseverance bridges the way over many obstacles, and
so, with my father's skates, which were over a foot long, and which
required no little ingenuity to fasten to my feet, I made my first
attempt on the ice. Soon, however, in the growth of my feet, this
trouble was overcome, and I could whirl over the ice with anyone. The
girls did not share in this exhilarating exercise then; indeed their
doing so would have been thought quite improper. As our time was usually
taken up with school through the day, and with such chores as feeding
cattle and bringing wood in for the fire when we returned at night, we
would sally out after supper, on moonlight nights, and, full of life and
hilarity, fly over the ice, singing and shouting, and making the night
ring with our merriment. There was plenty of room on the bay, and early
in the season there were miles of ice, smooth as glass and clear as
crystal, reflecting the stars which sparkled and glittered beneath our
feet, as though we were gliding over a sea of silver set with
brilliants.

  Ho for the bay, the ice-bound bay!
    The moon is up, the stars are bright;
  The air is keen, but let it play--
    We're proof against Jack Frost to-night.
  With a sturdy swing and lengthy stride,
    The glassy ice shall feel our steel;
  And through the welkin far and wide
    The echo of our song shall peal.

CHORUS.--Hurrah, boys, hurrah! skates on and away!
  You may lag at your work, but never at play;
  Give wing to your feet, and make the ice ring,
  Give voice to your mirth, and merrily sing.

  Ho for the boy who does not care
    A fig for cold or northern blast!
  Whose winged feet can cut the air
    Swift as an arrow from bowman cast:
  Who can give a long and hearty chase,
    And wheel and whirl; then in a trice
  Inscribe his name in the polished face,
    Of the cold and clear and glistening ice.

CHORUS.

  Ho, boys! the night is waning fast;
    The moon's last rays but faintly gleam.
  The hours have glided swiftly past,
    And we must home to rest and dream.
  The morning's light must find us moving,
    Ready our daily tasks to do;
  This is the way we have of proving
    We can do our part at working too.

CHORUS.


CHAPTER II.

THE ROUND OF PIONEER LIFE--GAME--NIGHT FISHING--MORE DETAILS ABOUT
SUGAR-MAKING--SUGARING-OFF--TAKING A HAND AT THE OLD CHURN--SHEEP-
WASHING-COUNTRY GIRLS, THEN AND NOW--SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW--"OLD GRAY"
AND HIS ECCENTRICITIES--HARVEST--MY EARLY EMULATION OF PETER PAUL
RUBENS--MEETING-HOUSES--ELIA ON QUAKER MEETINGS--VARIEGATED AUTUMN
LANDSCAPES--LOGGING AND QUILTING BEES--EVENING FUN--THE TOUCHING LAY OF
THE YOUNG WOMAN WHO SAT DOWN TO SLEEP.

Visiting for the older folk and sleigh-riding for the younger were the
principal amusements of the winter. The life then led was very plain and
uneventful. There was no ostentatious display, or assumption of
superiority by the "first families." Indeed there was no room for the
lines of demarcation which exist in these days. All had to struggle for
a home and home comforts, and if some had been more successful in the
rough battle of pioneer life than others, they saw no reason why they
should be elated or puffed up over it. Neighbours were too scarce to be
coldly or haughtily treated. They had hewn their way, side by side, into
the fastnesses of the Canadian bush, and therefore stood on one common
level. But few superfluities could be found either in their houses or on
their persons. Their dress was of home-made fabric, plain, often coarse,
but substantial and comfortable. Their manners were cordial and hearty,
even to brusqueness, but they were true friends and honest counsellors,
rejoicing with their neighbours in prosperity, and sympathising when
days of darkness visited their homes. Modern refinement had not crept
into their domestic circle to disturb it with shams and pretensions.
Fashion had no court wherein to adjudicate on matters of dress. Time-
worn styles of dress and living were considered the best, and hence
there was no rivalry or foolish display in either. Both old and young
enjoyed an evening at a friend's house, where they were sure to be
welcomed, and where a well-supplied table always greeted them. The home
amusements were very limited. Music, with its refining power, was
uncultivated, and indeed almost unknown. There were no musical
instruments, unless some wandering fiddler happened to come along to
delight both old and young with his crazy instrument. There were no
critical ears to detect discordant sounds, or be displeased with the
poor execution of the rambling musician. The young folk would sometimes
spirit him away to the village tavern, which was usually provided with a
large room called a ball-room, where he would fiddle while they danced
the hours gaily away. At home the family gathered round the glowing
fire, where work and conversation moved on together. The old motto of
"Early to bed, and early to rise" was strictly observed. Nine o'clock
usually found the household wrapt in slumber. In the morning all were up
and breakfast was over usually before seven. As soon as it began to get
light, the men and boys started for the barn to feed the cattle and
thresh; and thus the winter wore away.

Very little things sometimes contribute largely to the comfort of a
family, and among those I may mention the lucifer match, then unknown.
It was necessary to carefully cover up the live coals on the hearth
before going to bed, so that there would be something to start the fire
with in the morning. This precaution rarely failed with good hard-wood
coals. But sometimes they died out, and then some one would have to go
to a neighbour's house for fire, a thing which I have done sometimes,
and it was not nice to have to crawl out of my warm nest and run through
the keen cold air for a half mile or more to fetch some live coals,
before the morning light had broken in the east. My father usually kept
some bundles of finely split pine sticks tipped with brimstone for
starting a fire. With these, if there was only a spark left, a fire
could soon be made.

But little time was given to sport, although there was plenty of large
game. There was something of more importance always claiming attention.
In the winter an occasional deer might be shot, and foxes were sometimes
taken in traps. It required a good deal of experience and skill to set a
trap so as to catch the cunning beast. Many stories have I heard
trappers tell of tricks played by Reynard, and how he had, night after
night, baffled all their ingenuity, upset the traps, set them off, or
removed them, secured the bait, and away. Another sport more largely
patronized in the spring, because it brought something fresh and
inviting to the table, was night-fishing. When the creeks were swollen,
and the nights were calm and warm, pike and mullet came up the streams
in great abundance. Three or four would set out with spears, with a man
to carry the jack, and also a supply of dry pine knots, as full of resin
as could be found, and cut up small, which were deposited in different
places along the creek. The jack was then filled and lit, and when it
was all ablaze carried along the edge of the stream, closely followed by
the spearsman, who, if an expert, would in a short time secure as many
fish as could be carried. It required a sharp eye and a sure aim. The
fish shot through the water with great rapidity, which rendered the
sport all the more exciting. All hands, of course, returned home
thoroughly soaked. Another and pleasanter way was fishing in a canoe on
the bay, with the lighted jack secured in the bow. While there its light
shone for a considerable distance around, and enabled the fishers to see
the smallest fish low down in the clear calm water. This was really
enjoyable sport, and generally resulted in a good catch of pike,
pickerel, and, very often, a maskelonge or two.

Early in the spring, before the snow had gone, the sugar-making time
came. Success depended altogether upon the favourable condition of the
weather. The days must be clear and mild, the nights frosty, and plenty
of snow in the woods. When the time was at hand, the buckets and troughs
were overhauled, spiles were made, and when all was ready the large
kettles and casks were put in the sleigh, and all hands set out for the
bush. Tapping the tree was the first thing in order. This was done
either by boring the tree with an auger, and inserting a spile about a
foot long to carry off the sap, or with a gouge-shaped tool about two
inches wide, which was driven into the tree, under an inclined scar made
with an axe. The spiles used in this case were split with the same
instrument, sharpened at the end with a knife, and driven into the cut.
A person accustomed to the work would tap a great many trees in a day,
and usually continued until he had done two or three hundred or more.
This finished, next came the placing and hanging of the kettles. A large
log, or what was more common, the trunk of some great tree that had been
blown down, would be selected, in as central a position as possible. Two
crotches were erected by its side, and a strong pole was put across from
one to the other. Hooks were then made, and the kettles suspended over
the fire. The sap was collected once and sometimes twice a day, and when
there was a good supply in the casks, the boiling began. Each day's run
was finished, if possible, the same night, when the sugaring-off took
place. There are various simple ways of telling when the syrup is
sufficiently boiled, and when this is done, the kettle containing the
result of the day's work is set off the fire, and the contents stirred
until they turn to sugar, which is then dipped into dishes or moulds,
and set aside to harden. Sometimes, when the run was large, the boiling
continued until late at night, and, although there was a good deal of
hard work connected with it, there was also more or less enjoyment,
particularly when some half dozen merry girls dropped in upon you, and
assisted at the closing scene. On these occasions the fun was free and
boisterous. The woods rang with shouts and peals of laughter, and always
ended by our faces and hair being all _stuck up_ with sugar. Then
we would mount the sleigh and leave for the house. But the most
satisfactory part of the whole was to survey the result of the toil in
several hundred weight of sugar, and various vessels filled with rich
molasses.

[Illustration: NIGHT FISHING IN THE CREEK.]

Now the hams and beef had to be got out of the casks, and hung up in the
smoke-house to be smoked. The spring work crowded on rapidly. Ploughing,
fencing, sawing and planting followed in quick succession. All hands
were busy. The younger ones had to drive the cows to pasture in the
morning and bring them up at night. They had also to take a hand at the
old churn, and it was a weary task, as I remember well, to stand for an
hour, perhaps, and drive the dasher up and down through the thick cream.
How often the handle was examined to see if there were any indications
of butter; and what satisfaction there was in getting over with it. As
soon as my legs were long enough I had to follow a team, and drag in
grain--in fact, before, for I was mounted on the back of one of the
horses when my nether limbs were hardly long enough to hold me to my
seat. The implements then in use were very rough. Iron ploughs, with
cast iron mouldboards, shears, &c., were generally used. As compared
with the ploughs of to-day they were clumsy things, but were a great
advance over the old wooden ploughs which had not yet altogether gone
out of use. Tree tops were frequently used for drags. Riding a horse in
the field, under a hot sun, which I frequently had to do, was not as
agreeable as it might seem at the first blush.

[Illustration: SUGAR MAKING.]

In June came sheep-washing. The sheep were driven to the bay shore and
secured in a pen, whence they were taken one by one into the bay, and
their fleece well washed, after which they were let go. In a few days
they were brought to the barn and sheared. The wool was then sorted;
some of it being retained to be carded by hand, the rest sent to the
mill to be turned into rolls; and when they were brought home the hum of
the spinning wheel was heard day after day, for weeks, and the steady
beat of the girls' feet on the floor, as they walked forward and
backward drawing out and twisting the thread, and then letting it run
upon the spindle. Of course the quality of the cloth depended on the
fineness and evenness of the thread; and a great deal of pains was taken
to turn out good work. When the spinning was done, the yarn was taken
away to the weaver to be converted into cloth. As I have said before,
there were no drones in a farmer's house then. While the work was being
pushed outside with vigour, it did not stand still inside. The thrifty
housewife was always busy. Beside the daily round of cares that
continually pressed upon her, the winter had hardly passed away before
she began to make preparations for the next. There were wild
strawberries and raspberries to pickle and preserve, of which the family
had their share as they came, supplemented with an abundance of rich
cream and sugar; and so with the other fruits in their turn. There was
the daily task, too, of milking, and the less frequent one of making
butter and cheese. The girls were always out in the yard by sunrise, and
soon came tripping in with red cheeks and flowing pails of milk; and at
sunset the scene was repeated. The matron required no nurse to take care
of the children; no cook to superintend the kitchen; no chamber-maid to
make the beds and do the dusting. She had, very likely, one or two hired
girls, neighbours' daughters. It was quite common then for farmers'
daughters to go out to work when their services could be dispensed with
at home. They were treated as equals, and took as much interest in the
affairs of the family as the mistress herself. The fact of a girl going
out to work did not affect her position. On the contrary, it was rather
in her favour, and showed that she had some ambition about her. The
girls, in those days, were quite as much at home in the kitchen as in
the drawing-room or boudoir. They could do better execution over a wash
tub than at a spinet. They could handle a rolling pin with more
satisfaction than a sketch book; and if necessity required, could go out
in the field and handle a fork and rake with practical results. They
were educated in the country school house--

  "Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,"

with their brothers, and not at a city boarding school. They had not so
much as dreamed of fashion books, or heard of fashionable milliners.
Their accomplishments were picked up at home, not abroad. And with all
these drawbacks, they were pure, modest, affectionate. They made good
wives; and that they were the best and most thoughtful mothers that ever
watched over the well-being of their children, many remember full well.

Country life was practical and plodding in those days. Ambition did not
lure the husbandman to days of luxury and ease, but to the
accomplishment of a good day's work, and a future crowned with the
fruits of honest industry. If the girls were prepared for the future by
the watchful care and example of the mothers, so the boys followed in
the footsteps of their fathers. They did not look upon their lives as
burdensome. They did not feel that the occupation of a farmer was less
honourable than any other. The merchant's shop did not possess more
attraction than the barn. Fine clothes were neither so durable nor so
cheap as home-made suits. Fashionable tailors did not exist to lure them
into extravagance, and the town-bred dandy had not broken loose to taint
them with his follies. Their aspirations did not lead into ways of
display and idleness, or their association to bad habits. They were
content to work as their fathers had done, and their aim was to become
as exemplary and respected as they were. It was in such a school and
under such masters that the foundation of Canadian prosperity was laid,
and it is not gratifying to the thoughtful mind, after the survey of
such a picture, to find that although our material prosperity in the
space of fifty years has been marvellous, we have been gradually
departing from the sterling example set us by our progenitors, for
twenty years at least. "Dead flies" of extravagance have found their way
into the "ointment" of domestic life, and their "savour" is keenly felt.
In our haste to become rich, we have abandoned the old road of honest
industry. To acquire wealth, and to rise in the social scale, we have
cast behind us those principles which give tone and value to position.
We are not like the Israelites who longed for the "flesh pots" they had
left behind in Egypt; yet when we look around it is difficult to keep
back the question put by the Ecclesiast, "What is the cause that the
former days were better than these?" and the answer we think is not
difficult to find. Our daughters are brought up now like tender plants,
more for ornament than use. The practical lessons of life are neglected
for the superficial. We send our sons to college, and there they fly
from the fostering care of home; they crowd into our towns and cities--
sometimes to rise, it is true, but more frequently to fall, and to
become worthless members of society. Like the dog in the fable, we
ourselves have let the substance drop, while our gaze has been glamoured
by the shadow.

Early in July the haying began. The mowers were expected to be in the
meadow by sunrise; and all through the day the rasp of their whetstones
could be heard, as they dexterously drew them with a quick motion of the
hand, first along one side of the scythe and then the other; after which
they went swinging across the field, the waving grass falling rapidly
before their keen blades, and dropping in swathes at their side. The
days were not then divided off into a stated number of working hours.
The rule was to begin with the morning light and continue as long as you
could see. Of course men had to eat in those days as well as now, and
the blast of the old tin dinner-horn fell on the ear with more melodious
sound than the grandest orchestra to the musical enthusiast. Even "Old
Gray," when I followed the plough, used to give answer to the cheerful
wind of the horn by a loud whinny, and stop in the furrow, as if to say,
"There now, off with my harness, and let us to dinner." If I happened to
be in the middle of the field, I had considerable trouble to get the old
fellow to go on to the end.

I must say a few words in this place about "Old Gray." Why he was always
called "Old Gray" is more than I know. His colour could not have
suggested the name, for he was a bright roan, almost a bay. He was by no
means a pretty animal, being raw-boned, and never seeming to be in
first-rate condition; but he was endowed with remarkable sagacity and
great endurance, and was, moreover, a fleet trotter. When my father
began the work for himself he was a part of his chattels, and survived
his master several years. Father drove him twice to Little York one
winter, a distance of over one hundred and fifty miles, accomplishing
the trip both times inside of a week. He never would allow a team to
pass him. It was customary in those days, particularly with youngsters
in the winter, to turn out and run by, and many such races I have had;
but the moment a team turned out of the track to pass "Old Gray," he was
off like a shot, and you might as well try to hold a locomotive with
pins as him with an ordinary bit. He was skittish, and often ran away.
On one occasion, when I was very young, he ran off with father and
myself in a single waggon. We were both thrown out, and, our feet
becoming entangled in the lines, we were dragged some distance. The
wheel passed over my head, and cut it so that it bled freely, but the
wound was not serious. My father was badly hurt. After a while we
started for home, and before we reached it the old scamp got frightened
at a log, and set off full tilt. Again, father was thrown out, and I
tipped over on the bottom of the waggon. Fortunately, the shafts gave
way, and let him loose, when he stopped. Father was carried home, and
did not leave the house for a long time. I used to ride the self-willed
beast to school in the winter, and had great sport, sometimes, by
getting boys on behind me, and, when they were not thinking, I would
touch "Old Gray" under the flank with my heel, which would make him
spring as though he were shot, and off the boys would tumble in the
snow. When I reached school I tied up the reins and let him go home. I
do not think he ever had an equal for mischief, and for the last years
we had him we could do nothing with him. He was perpetually getting into
the fields of grain, and leading all the other cattle after him. We used
to hobble him in all sorts of ways, but he would manage to push or rub
down the fence at some weak point, and unless his nose was fastened down
almost to the ground by a chain from his head to his hind leg, he would
let down the bars, or open all the gates about the place. There was not
a door about the barn but he would open, if he could get at the latch,
and if the key was left in the granary door he would unlock that. If
left standing he was sure to get his head-stall off, and we had to get a
halter made specially for him. He finally became such a perpetual
torment that we sold him, and we all had a good cry when the old horse
went away. He was upwards of twenty-five years old at this time. How
much longer he lived I cannot say. I never saw him afterward.

[Illustration: RUNNING BY.]

As soon as the sun was well up, and our tasks about the house over, our
part of this new play in the hayfield began, and with a fork or long
stick we followed up the swathes and spread them out nicely, so that the
grass would dry. In the afternoon, it had to be raked up into winrows--
work in which the girls often joined us--and after tea one or two of the
men cocked it up, while we raked the ground clean after them. If the
weather was clear and dry it would be left out for several days before
it was drawn into the barn or stacked; but often it was housed as soon
as dry.

Another important matter which claimed the farmer's attention at this
time was the preparation of his summer-fallow for fall wheat. The ground
was first broken up after the spring sowing was over, and about hay time
the second ploughing had to be done, to destroy weeds, and get the land
in proper order. In August the last ploughing came, and about the first
of September the wheat was sown. It almost always happened, too, that
there were some acres of woodland that had been chopped over for fire
wood and timber, to be cleaned up. Logs and bush had to be collected
into piles, and burned. On new farms this was heavy work. Then the
timber was cut down, and ruthlessly given over to the fire. Logging bees
were of frequent occurrence, when the neighbours turned out with their
oxen and logging chains, and, amid the ring of the axe and the shouting
of drivers and men with their handspikes, the great logs were rolled one
upon another into huge heaps, and left for the fire to eat them out of
the way. When the work was done, all hands proceeded to the house, grim
and black as a band of sweeps, where, with copious use of soap and
water, they brought themselves back to their normal condition, and went
in and did justice to the supper prepared for them.

In August the wheat fields were ready for the reapers. This was the
great crop of the year. Other grain was grown, such as rye, oats, peas,
barley and corn, but principally for feeding. Wheat was the farmer's
main dependence, his staff of life and his current coin. A good cradler
would cut about five acres a day, and an expert with a rake would follow
and bind up what he cut. There were men who would literally walk through
the grain with a cradle, and then two men were required to follow. My
father had no superior in swinging the cradle, and when the golden grain
stood thick and straight, he gave two smart men all they could do to
take up what he cut down. Again the younger fry came in for their share
of the work, which was to gather the sheaves and put them in shocks.
These, after standing a sufficient time, were brought into the barn and
mowed away, and again the girls often gave a helping hand both in the
field and the barn. In all these tasks good work was expected. My father
was, as I have said before, a pushing man, and "thorough" in all he
undertook. His mottoes with his men were, "Follow me," and "Anything
that is worth doing, is worth doing well;" and this latter rule was
always enforced. The ploughers had to throw their furrows neat and
straight. When I got to be a strong lad, I could strike a furrow with
the old team across a field as straight as an arrow, and I took pride in
throwing my furrows in uniform precision. The mowers had to shear the
land close and smooth. The rakers threw their winrows straight, and the
men made their hay-cocks of a uniform size, and placed them at equal
distances apart. So in the grain field, the stubble had to be cut clean
and even, the sheaves well bound and shocked in straight rows, with ten
sheaves to the shock. It was really a pleasure to inspect the fields
when the work was done. Skill was required to load well, and also to mow
away, the object being to get the greatest number of sheaves in the
smallest space. About the first of September the crops were in and the
barns were filled and surrounded with stacks of hay and grain.

My father was admitted to be the best farmer in the district. His farm
was a model of good order and neatness. He was one of the first to
devote attention to the improvement of his stock, and was always on the
look-out for improved implements or new ideas, which, if worthy of
attention, he was the first to utilize.

There is always something for a pushing farmer to do, and there are
always rainy days through the season, when out-door work comes to a
stand. At such times my father was almost always found in his workshop,
making pails or tubs for the house, or repairing his tools or making new
ones. At other times he would turn his attention to dressing the flax he
had stowed away, and getting it ready for spinning. The linen for bags,
as well as for the house, was then all home-made. It could hardly be
expected that with such facilities at hand my ingenuity would not
develop. One day I observed a pot of red paint on the workbench, and it
struck me that the tools would look much better if I gave them a coat of
paint. The thought was hardly conceived before it was put into
execution, and in a short time planes, saws, augers, &c., were carefully
coated over and set aside to dry. Father did not see the thing in the
same light as I did. He was very much displeased, and I was punished.
After this I turned my attention to water-wheels, waggons, boats, boxes,
&c., and in time got to be quite an expert with tools, and could make
almost anything out of wood. We children, although we had to drive cows,
feed the calves, bring in wood, and all that, had our amusements, simple
and rustic enough it is true; but we enjoyed them, and all the more
because our parents very often entered into our play.

Sunday was a day of enjoyment as well as rest. There were but few places
of public worship, and those were generally far apart. In most places
the schoolhouse or barn served the purpose. There were two meeting-
houses--this was the term always used then for places of worship--a few
miles from our place on Hay bay. The Methodist meeting-house was the
first place built for public worship in Upper Canada, and was used for
that purpose until a few years ago. It now belongs to Mr. Platt, and is
used as a storehouse. The other, a Quaker meeting-house, built some
years later, is still standing. It was used as a barrack by the
Glengarry regiment in 1812, a part of which regiment was quartered in
the neighbourhood during that year. The men left their bayonet-marks in
the old posts.

[Illustration: QUAKER MEETING HOUSE.]

On Sunday morning the horses were brought up and put to the lumber
waggon, the only carriage known then. The family, all arrayed in their
Sunday clothes, arranged themselves in the spacious vehicle, and drove
away. At that time, and for a good many years after, whether in the
school-house or meeting-house, the men sat on one side and the women on
the other, in all places of worship. The sacred bond which had been
instituted by the Creator Himself in the Garden of Eden, "Therefore
shall a man leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife; and
they shall be one flesh," did not seem to harmonize with that custom,
for when they went up to His house they separated at the door. It would
have been thought a very improper thing, even for a married couple, to
take a seat side by side. Indeed I am inclined to think that the good
brothers and sisters would have put them out of doors. So deeply rooted
are the prejudices in matters of religious belief. That they are the
most difficult to remove, the history of the past confirms through all
ages. This custom prevailed for many years after. When meeting was over
it was customary to go to some friend's to dinner, and make, as used to
be said, a visit, or, what was equally as pleasant, father or mother
would ask some old acquaintances to come home with us. Sunday in all
seasons, and more particularly in the summer, was the grand visiting day
with old and young. I do not state this out of any disrespect for the
Sabbath. I think I venerate it as much as anyone, but I am simply
recording facts as they then existed. The people at that time, as a
rule, were not religious, but they were moral, and anxious for greater
religious advantages. There were not many preachers, and these had such
extended fields of labour that their appointments were irregular, and
often, like angels' visits, few and far between. They could not ignore
their social instincts altogether, and this was the only day when the
toil and moil of work was put aside. They first went to meeting, when
there was any, and devoted the rest of the day to friendly intercourse
and enjoyment. People used to come to Methodist meeting for miles, and
particularly on quarterly meeting day. On one of these occasions,
fourteen young people who were crossing the bay in a skiff, on their way
to the meeting, were upset near the shore and drowned. Some years later
the missionary meeting possessed great attraction, when a deputation
composed of Egerton Ryerson and Peter Jones, the latter with his Indian
curiosities, drew the people in such numbers that half of them could not
get into the house.

There were a good many Quakers, and as my father's people belonged to
that body we frequently went to their meeting. The broad brims on one
side, with the scoop bonnets on the other, used to excite my curiosity,
but I did not like to sit still so long. Sometimes not a word would be
said, and after an hour of profound silence, two of the old men on one
of the upper seats would shake hands. Then a general shaking of hands
ensued on both sides of the house, and meeting was out.

Many readers will recall gentle Charles Lamb's thoughtful paper on "A
Quakers' Meeting." [Footnote: See _Essays of Elia_.] Several of his
reflections rise up so vividly before me as I write these lines that I
cannot forbear quoting them. "What," he asks, "is the stillness of the
desert, compared with this place? what the uncommunicating muteness of
fishes?--here the goddess reigns and revels.--'Boreas, and Cesias, and
Argestes loud,' do not with their interconfounding uproars more augment
the brawl--nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed sounds
--than their opposite (Silence her sacred self) is multiplied and
rendered more intense by numbers, and by sympathy. She too hath her
deeps, that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a positive more and
less; and closed eyes would seem to obscure the great obscurity of
midnight.

"There are wounds which an imperfect solitude cannot heal. By imperfect
I mean that which a man enjoyeth by himself. The perfect is that which
he can sometimes attain in crowds, but nowhere so absolutely as in a
Quakers' Meeting.--Those first hermits did certainly understand this
principle, when they retired into Egyptian solitudes, not singly, but in
shoals, to enjoy one another's want of conversation. The Carthusian is
bound to his brethren by this agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness. In
secular occasions, what so pleasant as to be reading a book through a
long winter evening, with a friend sitting by--say a wife--he, or she,
too (if that be probable), reading another, without interruption, or
oral communication?--can there be no sympathy without the gabble of
words?--away with this inhuman, shy, single, shade-and-cavern-haunting
solitariness. Give me, Master Zimmerman, a sympathetic solitude.

"To pace alone in the cloisters, or side aisles of some cathedral, time-
stricken;

  Or under hanging mountains,
  Or by the fall of fountains;

is but a vulgar luxury compared with that which those enjoy who come
together for the purposes of more complete, abstracted solitude. This is
the loneliness 'to be felt.' The Abbey-Church of Westminster hath
nothing so solemn, so spirit-soothing, as the naked walls and benches of
a Quakers' Meeting. Here are no tombs, no inscriptions,

  --Sands, ignoble things,
  Dropt from the ruined sides of kings--

but here is something which throws Antiquity herself into the
foreground--SILENCE--eldest of things--language of old Night--primitive
Discourser--to which the insolent decays of mouldering grandeur have but
arrived by a violent, and, as we may say, unnatural progression.

  How reverend is the view of these hushed heads,
  Looking tranquillity!

"Nothing-plotting, nought-caballing, unmischievous synod! convocation
without intrigue! parliament without debate! what a lesson dost thou
read, to council and to consistory!--if my pen treat of you lightly--as
haply it will wander--yet my spirit hath gravely felt the wisdom of your
custom, when sitting among you in deepest peace, which some outwelling
tears would rather confirm than disturb, I have reverted to the times of
your beginnings, and the sowings of the seed by Fox and Dewesbury.--I
have witnessed that which brought before my eyes your heroic
tranquillity inflexible to the rude jests and serious violences of the
insolent soldiery, republican or royalist sent to molest you--for ye
sate betwixt the fires of two persecutions, the outcast and off-scouring
of church and presbytery.

"I have seen the reeling sea-ruffian, who had wandered into your
receptacle with the avowed intention of disturbing your quiet, from the
very spirit of the place receive in a moment a new heart, and presently
sit among ye as a lamb amidst lambs. And I remember Penn before his
accusers, and Fox in the bail-dock, where he was lifted up in spirit, as
he tells us, and the judge and the jury became as dead men under his
feet."

Our old family carriage--the lumbering waggon--revives many pleasant
recollections. Many long rides were taken in it, both to mill and
market, and, sometimes I have curled myself up, and slept far into the
night in it while waiting for my grist to be ground so I could take it
home. But it was not used by the young folks as sleighs were in the
winter. It was a staid, family vehicle, not suited to mirth or love-
making. It was too noisy for that, and on a rough road, no very uncommon
thing then, one was shaken up so thoroughly that there was but little
room left for sentiment. In later times, lighter and much more
comfortable vehicles were used. The elliptic or steel spring did not
come into use until about 1840. I remember my grandfather starting off
for New York in one of these light one-horse waggons. I do not know how
long he was gone, but he made the journey, and returned safely. Long
journeys by land were made, principally in summer, on horseback, both by
men and women. The horse was also the young peoples' only vehicle at
this season of the year. The girls were usually good riders, and could
gallop away as well on the bare back as on the side-saddle. A female
cousin of my father's several times made journeys of from one to two
hundred miles on horseback, and on one occasion she carried her infant
son for a hundred and fifty miles, a feat the women of to-day would
consider impossible.

Then as now, the early fall was not the least pleasant portion of the
Canadian year. Everyone is familiar with the striking beauty of our
woods after the frost begins, and the endless variety of shade and
colour that mingles with such pleasing effect in every landscape. And in
those days, as well as now, the farmers' attention was directed to
preparation for the coming winter. His market staples then consisted of
wheat or flour, pork and potash. The other products of his farm, such as
coarse grain, were used by himself. Butter and eggs were almost
valueless, save on his own table. The skins of his sheep, calves and
beef cattle which were slaughtered for his own use, were sent to the
tanners, who dressed them on shares, the remainder being brought home to
be made up into boots, harness and mittens. Wood, which afterwards came
into demand for steam purposes, was worthless. Sawn lumber was not
wanted, except for home use, and the shingles that covered the buildings
were split and made by the farmer himself.

If the men had logging-bees, and other bees to help them on with their
work, the women, by way of compensation, had bees of a more social and
agreeable type. Among these were quilting bees, when the women and girls
of the neighbourhood assembled in the afternoon, and turned out those
skilfully and often artistically made rugs, so comfortable to lie under
during the cold winter nights. There was often a great deal of sport at
the close of one of these social industrial gatherings. When the men
came in from the field to supper, some luckless wight was sure to be
caught, and tossed up and down in the quilt amid the laughter and shouts
of the company. But of all the bees, the apple-bee was the chief. In
these old and young joined. The boys around the neighbourhood, with
their home-made apple-machines, of all shapes and designs, would come
pouring in with their girls early in the evening. The large kitchen,
with its sanded floor, the split bottomed chairs ranged round the room,
the large tubs of apples, and in the centre the clean scrubbed pine
table filled with wooden trays and tallow-candles in tin candlesticks,
made an attractive picture which had for its setting the mother and
girls, all smiles and good nature, receiving and pleasing the company.
Now the work begins amidst laughter and mirth; the boys toss the peeled
apples away from their machines in rapid numbers, and the girls catch
them, and with their knives quarter and core them, while others string
them with needles on long threads, and tie them so that they can be hung
up to dry. As soon as the work is done the room is cleared for supper,
after which the old folks retire, and the second and most pleasing part
of the performance begins. These after-scenes were always entered into
with a spirit of fun and honest abandonment truly refreshing. Where
dancing was not objected to, a rustic fiddler would be spirited in by
some of the youngsters as the sport began. The dance was not that
languid sort of thing, toned down by modern refinement to a sliding,
easy motion round the room, and which, for the lack of conversational
accomplishments, is made to do duty for want of wit. Full of life and
vigour, they danced for the real fun of the thing. The quick and
inspiriting strains of the music sent them spinning round the room, and
amid the rush and whirl of the flying feet came the sharp voice of the
fiddler as he flourished his bow: "Right and left--balance to your
pardner--cross hands--swing your pardner--up and down the middle," and
so on through reel after reel. Some one of the boys would perform a
_pas seul_ with more energy than grace; but it was all the same--
the dancing master had not been abroad; the fiddler put life into their
heels, and they let them play. Frequently there was no musician to be
had, when the difficulty was overcome by the musical voices of the
girls, assisted with combs covered with paper, or the shrill notes of
some expert at whistling. It often happened that the old people objected
to dancing, and then the company resorted to plays, of which there was a
great variety: "Button, button, who's got the button;" "Measuring Tape;"
"Going to Rome;" "Ladies Slipper;" all pretty much of the same
character, and much appreciated by the boys, because they afforded a
chance to kiss the girls.

Some of our plays bordered very closely on a dance, and when our
inclinations were checked, we approached the margin of the forbidden
ground as nearly as possible. Among these I remember one which afforded
an opportunity to swing around in a merry way. A chair was placed in the
centre of the room, upon which one of the girls or boys was seated. Then
we joined hands, and went dancing around singing the following
refrain:--

  There was a young woman sat down to sleep,
    Sat down to sleep, sat down to sleep;
  There was a young woman sat down to sleep,
    Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho!

  There was a young man to keep her awake,
    To keep her awake, to keep her awake;
  There was a young man to keep her awake,
    Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho-! Heigh-ho!

  Tom Brown his name shall be,
    His name shall be, his name shall be;
  Tom Brown his name shall be,
    Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho! Heigh-ho!

Whereupon Mr. Brown was expected to step out, take the girl by the hand,
salute her with a kiss, and then take her seat. Then the song went on
again, with variations to suit; and thus the rustic mazurka proceeded
until all had had a chance of tasting the rosy lips, so tempting to
youthful swains. Often a coy maiden resisted, and then a pleasant
scuffle ensued, in which she sometimes eluded the penalty, much to the
chagrin of the claimant.


CHAPTER III.

PROGRESS, MATERIAL AND SOCIAL--FONDNESS OF THE YOUNG FOR DANCING--
MAGISTERIAL NUPTIALS--THE CHARIVARI--COON-HUNTING--CATCHING A TARTAR--
WILD PIGEONS--THE OLD DUTCH HOUSES--DELIGHTS OF SUMMER AND WINTER
CONTRASTED--STILLED VOICES.

As time wore on, and contact with the outer world became easier and more
frequent, the refinements of advancing civilization found their way
gradually into the country, and changed the amusements as well as the
long-established habits of the people. An isolated community like that
which stretched along the frontier of our Province, cut off from the
older and more advanced stages of society, or holding but brief and
irregular communication with it, could not be expected to keep up with
the march of either social or intellectual improvement; and although the
modern may turn up his nose as he looks back, and affect contempt at the
amusements which fell across our paths like gleams of sunlight at the
break of day, and call them rude and indelicate, he must not forget that
we were not hedged about by the conventionalities, nor were we slaves to
the caprice of fashion. We were free sons and daughters of an upright,
sturdy parentage, with pure and honest hearts throbbing under rough
exteriors. The girls who did not blush at a hearty kiss from our lips
were as pure as the snow. They became ornaments in higher and brighter
circles of society, and mothers, the savour of whose virtues and
maternal affection rise before our memory like a perpetual incense.

I am quite well aware of the fact that a large portion of the religious
world is opposed to dancing, nor in this recital of country life as it
then existed do I wish to be considered an advocate of this amusement. I
joined in the sport then with as much eagerness and delight as one could
do. I learned to step off on the light fantastic toe, as many another
Canadian boy has done, on the barn floor, where, with the doors shut, I
went sliding up and down, through the middle, balancing to the pitch-
fork, turning round the old fanning-mill, then double-shuffling and
closing with a profound bow to the splint broom in the corner. These
were the kind of schools in which our accomplishments were learned; and,
whether dancing be right or wrong, it is certain the inclination of the
young to indulge in it is about as universal as the taint of sin.

The young people then, as now, took it into their heads to get married;
but parsons were scarce, and it did not always suit them to wait until
one came along. To remedy this difficulty the Government authorized
magistrates to perform the ceremony for any couple who resided more than
eighteen miles from church. There were hardly any churches, and
therefore a good many called upon the Justice to put a finishing touch
to their happiness, and curious looking pairs presented themselves to
have the knot tied. One morning a robust young man and a pretty,
blushing girl presented themselves at my father's door, and were invited
in. They were strangers, and it was some time before he could find out
what they wanted; but after beating about the bush, the young man
hesitatingly said they wanted to get married. They were duly tied, and,
on leaving, I was asked to join in their wedding dinner. Though it was
to be some distance away, I mounted my horse and joined them. The dinner
was good, and served in the plain fashion of the day. After it came
dancing, to the music of a couple of fiddlers, and we threaded through
reel after reel until nearly daylight. On another occasion a goodly
company gathered at a neighbour's house to assist at the nuptials of his
daughter. The ceremony had passed, and we were collected around the
supper table; the old man had spread out his hands to ask a blessing,
when bang, bang, went a lot of guns, accompanied by horns, whistles, tin
pans and anything and everything with which a noise could be made. A
simultaneous shriek went up from the girls, and for a few moments the
confusion was as great inside as out. It was a horrid din of discordant
sounds. Conversation at the supper table was out of the question, and as
soon as it was over we went out among the boys who had come to charivari
us. There were perhaps fifty of them, with blackened faces and ludicrous
dresses, and after the bride and bridegroom had shown themselves and
received their congratulations, they went their way, and left us to
enjoy ourselves in peace. It was after this manner the young folks
wedded. There was but little attempt at display. No costly trousseau, no
wedding tours. A night of enjoyment with friends, and the young couple
set out at once on the practical journey of life.

One of our favourite sports in those days was coon (short name for
raccoon) hunting. This lasted only during the time of green corn. The
raccoon is particularly fond of corn before it hardens, and if
unmolested will destroy a good deal in a short time. He always visits
the cornfields at night; so about nine o'clock we would set off with our
dogs, trained for the purpose, and with as little noise as possible make
our way to the edge of the corn, and then wait for him. If the field was
not too large he could easily be heard breaking down the ears, and then
the dogs were let loose. They cautiously and silently crept towards the
unsuspecting foe. But the sharp ears and keen scent of the raccoon
seldom let him fall into the clutch of the dogs without a scamper for
life. The coon was almost always near the woods, and this gave him a
chance of escape. As soon as a yelp was heard from the dogs, we knew the
fun had begun, and pushing forward in the direction of the noise, we
were pretty sure to find our dogs baffled and jumping and barking around
the foot of a tree up which Mr. Coon had fled, and whence he was quietly
looking down on his pursuers from a limb or crutch. Our movements now
were guided by circumstances. If the tree was not too large, one of us
would climb it and dislodge the coon. In the other case we generally cut
it down. The dogs were always on the alert, and the moment the coon
touched the ground they were on him. We used frequently to capture two
or three in a night. The skin was dressed and made into caps or robes
for the sleigh. On two or three of these expeditions, our dogs caught a
Tartar by running foul of a _coon_ not so easily disposed of--in
the shape of a bear; and then we were both glad to decamp, as he was
rather too big a job to undertake in the night. Bruin was fond of young
corn, but he and the wolves had ceased to be troublesome. The latter
occasionally made a raid on a flock of sheep in the winter, but they
were watched pretty closely, and were trapped or shot. There was a
government bounty of $4 for every wolf's head. Another, and much more
innocent sport, was netting wild pigeons after the wheat had been taken
off. At that time they used to visit the stubbles in large flocks. Our
mode of procedure was to build a house of boughs under which to hide
ourselves. Then the ground was carefully cleaned and sprinkled with
grain, at one side of which the net was set, and in the centre one stool
pigeon, secured on a perch was placed, attached to which was a long
string running into the house. When all was ready we retired and watched
for the flying pigeons, and whenever a flock came within a seeing
distance our stool pigeon was raised and then dropped. This would cause
it to spread its wings and then flutter, which attracted the flying
birds, and after a circle or two they would swoop down and commence to
feed. Then the net was sprung, and in a trice we had scores of pigeons
under it. I do not remember to have seen this method of capturing
pigeons practised since. If we captured many we took them home, put them
where they could not get away, and took them out as we wanted them.

At the time of which I write Upper Canada had been settled about forty-
five years. A good many of the first settlers had ended their labours,
and were peacefully resting in the quiet grave-yard; but there were many
left, and they were generally hale old people, who were enjoying in
contentment and peace the evening of their days, surrounded by their
children, who were then in their prime, and their grandchildren, ruddy
and vigorous plants, shooting up rapidly around them. The years that had
fled were eventful ones, not only to themselves, but to the new country
which they had founded. "The little one had become a thousand, and a
small one a strong nation." The forest had melted away before the force
of their industry, and orchards with their russet fruit, and fields of
waving corn, gladdened their hearts and filled their cellars and barns
with abundance. The old log house which had been their shelter and their
home for many a year had disappeared, or was converted into an out-house
for cattle, or a place for keeping implements in during the winter; and
now the commodious and well-arranged frame one had taken its place.
Large barns for their increasing crops and warm sheds to protect the
cattle had grown up out of the rude hovels and stables. Everything
around them betokened thrift, and more than an ordinary degree of
comfort. They had what must be pronounced to have been, for the time,
good schools, where their children could acquire a tolerable education.
They also had places in which they could assemble and worship God. There
were merchants from whom they could purchase such articles as they
required, and there were markets for their produce. The changes wrought
in these forty-five years were wonderful, and to no class of persons
could these changes seem more surprising than to themselves. Certainly
no people appreciated more fully the rich ripe fruit of their toil.
Among the pleasantest pictures I can recall are the old homes in which
my boyhood was passed. I hardly know in what style of architecture they
were built; indeed, I think it was one peculiar to the people and the
age. They were strong, substantial structures, erected with an eye to
comfort rather than show. They were known afterwards as Dutch houses,
usually one story high, and built pretty much after the same model; a
parallelogram, with a wing at one end, and often to both. The roofs were
very steep, with a row of dormer windows, and sometimes two rows looking
out of their broad sides, to give light to the chambers and sleeping
rooms up-stairs. The living rooms were generally large, with low
ceilings, and well supplied with cupboards, which were always filled
with blankets and clothing, dishes, and a multitude of good things for
the table. The bed rooms were always small and cramped, but they were
sure to contain a good bed--a bed which required some ingenuity,
perhaps, to get into, owing to its height; but when once in, the great
feather tick fitted kindly to the weary body, and the blankets over you
soon wooed your attention away from the narrowness of the apartment.
Very often the roof projected over, giving an elliptic shape to one
side, and the projection of about six feet formed a cover of what was
then called a long stoop, but which now-a-days would be known as a
veranda. This was no addition to the lighting of the rooms, for the
windows were always small in size and few in number. The kitchen usually
had a double outside door--that is a door cut cross-wise through the
middle, so that the lower part could be kept shut, and the upper left
open if necessary. I do not know what particular object there was in
this, unless to let the smoke out, for chimneys were more apt to smoke
then than now; or, perhaps, to keep the youngsters in and let in fresh
air. Whatever the object was, this was the usual way the outside kitchen
door was made, with a wooden latch and leather string hanging outside to
lift it, which was easily pulled in, and then the door was quite secure
against intruders. The barns and out-houses were curiosities in after
years: large buildings with no end of timber and all roof, like a great
box with an enormous candle extinguisher set on it. But houses and barns
are gone, and modern structures occupy their places, as they succeeded
the rough log ones, and one can only see them as they are photographed
upon the memory.

Early days are always bright to life's voyager, and whatever his
condition may have been at the outset, he is ever wont to look back with
fondness to the scenes of his youth. I can recall days of toil under a
burning sun, but they were cheerful days, nevertheless. There was always
"a bright spot in the future" to look forward to, which moved the arm
and lightened the task. Youth is buoyant, and if its feet run in the way
of obedience, it will leave a sweet fragrance behind, which will never
lose its flavour. The days I worked in the harvest field, or when I
followed the plough, whistling and singing through the hours, are not
the least happy recollections of the past. The merry song of the girls,
mingling with the hum of the spinning-wheel, as they tripped backward
and forward to the cadence of their music, drawing out miles of thread,
reeling it into skeins which the weaver's loom and shuttle was to turn
into thick heavy cloth; or old grandmother treading away at her little
wheel, making it buzz as she drew out the delicate fibres of flax, and
let it run up the spindle a fine and evenly twisted thread, with which
to sew our garments, or to make our linen; and mother, busy as a bee,
thinking of us all, and never wearying in her endeavours to add to our
comfort--these are pictures that stand out, clear and distinct, and are
often reverted to with pleasure and delight. But though summer time in
the country is bright and beautiful with its broad meadows waving before
the western wind like seas of green, and the yellow corn, gleaming in
the field where the sun-burnt reapers are singing; though the flowers
shed their fragrance, and the breeze sighs softly through the branches
overhead in monotones, but slightly varied, yet sweet and soothing;
though the wood is made vocal with the song of birds, and all nature is
jocund and bright--notwithstanding, all this, the winter, strange as it
may seem, was the time of our greatest enjoyment. Winter, when "Old
Gray," who used to scamper with me astride his bare back down the lane,
stood munching his fodder in the stall; when the cattle, no longer
lolling or browsing in the peaceful shade, moved around the barn-yard
with humped backs, shaking their heads at the cold north wind; when the
trees were stripped of their foliage, and the icicles hung in fantastic
rows along the naked branches, glittering like jewels in the sunshine,
or rattling in the northern blast; when the ground was covered deep with
snow, and the wind "driving o'er the fields," whirled into huge drifts,
blocking up the doors and paths and roads; when

  "The whited air
  Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
  And veils the farm-house at the garden's end;"

when the frost silvered over the window-panes, or crept through the
cracks and holes, and fringed them with its delicate fret-work; when the
storm raged and howled without, and

  "Shook beams and rafters as it passed!"

Within, happy faces were gathered around the blazing logs in the old
fire-place.

  "Shut in from all the world without,
  We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
  Content to let the north wind roar,
  In baffled rage at pane and door,
  While the red logs before us beat
  The frost line back with tropic heat."

The supper has been cleared away, and upon the clean white table is
placed a large dish of apples and a pitcher of cider. On either end
stands a tallow candle in a bright brass candlestick, with an
extinguisher attached to each, and the indispensable snuffers and tray.
Sometimes the fingers are made use of in the place of the snuffers; but
it is not always satisfactory to the snuffer, as he sometimes burns
himself, and hastens to snap his fingers to get rid of the burning wick.
One of the candles is appropriated by father, who is quietly reading his
paper; for we had newspapers then, though they would not compare very
favourably with those of to-day, and we got them only once a week.
Mother is darning socks. Grandmother is making the knitting needles fly,
as though all her grandchildren were stockingless. The girls are sewing
and making merry with the boys, and we are deeply engaged with our
lessons, or what is more likely, playing fox and geese.

  "What matters how the night behaved;
  What matter how the north-wind raved;
  Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
  Could quench our ruddy hearth-fire's glow.

       *       *       *       *       *

  O time and change! with hair as gray
  As was my sire's that winter day,
  How strange it seems, with so much gone
  Of life and love, to still live on!

  Ah brother! only I and thou
  Are left of all the circle now--
  The dear home faces whereupon
  The fitful fire-light paled and shone,
  Henceforth, listen as we will,
  The voices of that hearth are still."


CHAPTER IV

THE EARLY SETTLERS IN UPPER CANADA--PROSPERITY, NATIONAL AND INDIVIDUAL
--THE OLD HOMES, WITHOUT AND WITHIN--CANDLE-MAKING--SUPERSTITIONS AND
OMENS--THE DEATH-WATCH--OLD ALMANACS--BEES--THE DIVINING ROD--THE U. E.
LOYALISTS--THEIR SUFFERINGS AND HEROISM--AN OLD AND A NEW PRICE LIST--
PRIMITIVE HOROLOGES--A JAUNT IN ONE OF THE CONVENTIONAL "CARRIAGES" OF
OLDEN TIMES--THEN AND NOW--A NOTE OF WARNING.

The settlement of Ontario, known up to the time of Confederation as the
Province of Upper Canada, or Canada West, began in 1784, so that at the
date I purpose to make a brief survey of the condition and progress of
the country, it had been settled forty-six years. During those years--no
insignificant period in a single life, but very small indeed in the
history of a country--the advance in national prosperity and in the
various items that go to make life pleasant and happy had been
marvellous. The muscular arm of the sturdy pioneer had hewn its way into
the primeval forest, and turned the gloomy wilderness into fruitful
fields.

It is well known that the first settlers located along the shores of the
River St. Lawrence, the Bay of Quinte, Lake Ontario, and Lake Erie, and
that, at the time of which I speak, this coastline of a few hundred
miles, extending back but a very short distance--a long narrow strip cut
from the serried edge of the boundless woods--comprised the settlement
of Canada West as it then existed. Persistent hard work had placed the
majority in circumstances of more than ordinary comfort. Good houses had
taken the place of log cabins, and substantial frame barns that of rude
hovels. Hard fare and scanty raiment had given place to an abundance of
the necessaries of life, and no people, perhaps, ever appreciated these
blessings with more sincere thankfulness or more hearty contentment. The
farmer was a strong, hardy man, the wife a ruddy, cheerful body, careful
of the comforts of her household. One table sufficed for themselves and
their servants or hired help. Meat was provided twice and often thrice a
day; it being more a matter of taste than economy as to the number of
times it was served. Fruit was abundant, and every matron prided herself
upon preserving and putting away quantities of it for home use. So that
at this time the world was moving smoothly with the people. An immense
track of wilderness had been reclaimed, and waving fields and fruitful
orchards occupied its place. It may have seemed to them, and indeed I
think it did to many, that the sum of all they could expect or even
desire in this world had been attained; while we, who remember those
days, and look back over the changes of fifty years, wonder how they
managed to endure life at all.

It is true that the father, more from the force of habit than necessity,
perhaps continued to toil in the field, and the mother, moved by the
same cause, and by her maternal anxiety for the well-being of her
family, still spent many a long hour at the loom. The son, brought up to
work, followed the plough, or did battle with the axe, making the woods
ring with his rapid strokes. And as he laboured he pictured to himself
the building of a nest in the unbroken forest behind the homestead,
wherein the girl of his choice figured as the central charm. The
daughter who toiled through the long summer's day to the monotonous hum
of the spinning wheel, drawing out and twisting the threads that should
enter into the make-up of her wedding outfit, was contented and happy.
The time and circumstances in which they were placed presented nothing
better, and in their estimation the world had little more to offer than
they already possessed.

It is more than probable that if we, with our modern notions and habits,
could to-day be carried back into a similar condition of life, we would
feel that our lines had fallen in anything but pleasant places. The
flying years, with their changes and anxieties, like the constant
dripping of water on a stone, have worn off the rough edges that wounded
and worried during their progress, and only the sunny spots, burned in
the plastic memory of younger days, remain.

The old homes, as I remember them in those days, were thought palatial
in their proportions and conveniences, and so they were as compared with
the old log houses. The latter often still remained as relics of other
days, but they had been converted into the base use of a cow stable, or
a shelter for waggons and farm implements during the winter. Their
successors were, with very few exceptions, wooden structures, clap-
boarded, and painted either yellow or red. The majority, however, never
received any touching up from the painter's brush, and as the years
rolled on became rusty and gray from the beating of winter's storms and
the heat of summer's sun. The interior rarely displayed any skill in
arrangement or design. The living rooms were generally of goodly size,
with low ceilings, but the sleeping rooms were invariably small, with
barely room enough for a large high-posted bedstead, and a space to
undress in. The exterior was void of any architectural embellishment,
with a steep roof pierced by dormer windows. The kitchen, which always
seemed to me like an after-thought, was a much lower part of the
structure, welded on one end or the other of the main body of the house,
and usually had a roof p