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Our freight, as
Jabez termed it, filled three wagons and started up Yonge street. A
fourth wagon came to the door of the tavern for the women and
children, I being left to help them. We were told to stop at Mr
Dunlop’s store for supplies that had been bought. He came out to see
us and in a minute was thick in talk with the women about Ayrshire.
On the team starting he declared meeting them was like a visit to
Scotland. The driver pointed out to us how straight Yonge street
was; runs forty miles to Lake Simcoe straight as the handle of my
whip. It was a jolty, hot drive but we enjoyed it hugely; everything
was new to us and we were all in high spirits at the prospect of our
long journey being about to end and in coming into possession of our
estates, about which there was no end of jokes.
Mrs Auld was in
doubts as to what name they would give their hundred acres, while
Mrs Brodie settled on Bonny braes for hers. ‘But we have not seen a
hill since we left Montreal,’ remarked the mistress. ‘I dinna care,’
rejoined Mrs Brodie, ‘Bonnybraes was the name of the farm we left
and it will make the woods homelike.’ When we spied at a distance
several men standing by the roadside we gave a shout of joy and were
soon reunited. The laughing and talking might have been heard half a
mile away. Jabez now took the lead. As the wagons arrived he had
caused them to be unloaded under a clump of hemlocks, the chests and
packages being arranged to make a three-sided enclosure. In front he
had started a fire, over which, slung from a pole resting on
crotched sticks, was a pot, and soon the mistress was preparing
supper. It was dark before we had settled for the night, which was
so warm that sleeping under the trees was no hardship. Jabez covered
the dying fire with damp litter, the smoke of which kept off the
mosquitos, which pestered us dreadfully.
In the morning Jabez was the first to be stirring. Giving me two
pails he directed me to go to a house I would find a bit down Yonge
street to get water, and, if they had it, some milk. The house I
found and also the well, but how to draw water out of it I knew not.
There was nobody stirring until my awkward attempts to work the
bucket brought a man out. I told him who I was. ‘You are an emigrant
and this is the first sweep-well you have tried to work. Well, now,
you have got to learn.’ and he showed me how simple it was. He was
much interested when he heard of our party and of their camping out.
‘Stay a minute till I tell mother. Coming back to the door he cried
to me to go on with the water and he would fetch milk after a while.
The porridge was ready when he and his wife appeared with the milk.
He called his wife mother, which we thought strange. She was a
smart, tidy woman and was soon deep in advice to our housekeepers
about bush ways of doing things and bush cookery. After they had
gone their children, three in number, came shyly round and watched
us with open-eyed curiosity.
Jabez was in haste to get us moved to our own location, and to do so
had provided two oxsleds. Taking charge of one and Sloot of the
other they dragged the first loads over the hush track, all the men,
except the master, following. On returning for a second load, Jabez
reported Brodie and Auld were pleased with the land and that Allan
and the children were having a wash in the pond. How to get grannie
through the woods concerned the master. Jabez solved the difficulty
by making a comfortable couch on his sled, on which she rested, with
the master on one side, Robbie running alongside-of the ox, and
myself following. So slowly and carefully did the ox step that
grannie was little discomposed. On stepping from her rude
conveyance, she gazed in wonder on the pond and the forest that
encompassed it. ‘This is our new farm,’ shouted Allan in her ear.
‘A’ this ground and the lakie?" ‘Yes,’ answered Allan. An thae
trees?’ ‘Yes,’ replied her grandson, father is laird of it all.’ She
stood for a minute or two as if dazed; and then a light came to her
face as if she had suddenly comprehended it all. She stepped to the
master, and laying her hands on his shoulders said, ‘You have been a
good and true son and weel you deserve to be a laird.’ Seeing a
black squirrel jump from tree to tree Robbie darted off with a shout
of glee.
Jabez cut a number of poles, and with them and blankets made two
roomy tents, which were to give shelter until shanties were built.
Before sites for them could be picked out it was necessary to divide
the 400 acre lot. Brodie and Auld were to get each a hundred acres
and they were agreed in choosing the portion of land that lay south
of the road and included the pond. The master, as I found later,
would have liked that part for himself, but willingly agreed to
their choice. The next point was to divide the 200 acres between
Auld and Brodie. Covered equally with heavy bush there was no
apparent difference, yet a division had to be made. Jabez, seeing
that one waited on the other to decide, cut two twigs and held them
out between his fingers. ‘The man who draws the long one, gets the
east half, and the short one the west.’ Brodie drew the long bit of
stick and Auld the short. It was agreed to raise Brodie’s shanty
first, as he had young children, and the Aulds could stay with them
until their own shanty was ready. Brodie selected the spot for his
home, and we began at once to cut the trees that stood upon it.
Saturday evening Jabez and Jim returned to Toronto to stay over
Sunday. The weather had been warm with two showers and camping was
no discomfort beyond the inconvenience to the women. There was no
complaining, for we were all in good spirits, buoyed up with the
prospect of future prosperity, and determined, if hard work would
ensure it, we would not spare ourselves. Our tasks for the week were
ended and we gathered on the site of Brodie’s house, sitting on the
felled trees. It was a calm night with soft air, the moonbeams
making a pathway of light across the pond. None seemed inclined to
speak, just wanting to rest and enjoy the peaceful hour. It was
Alice who broke the silence by starting to sing, and song followed
song, all joining when there was a chorus. It was a strange thought
that came into my mind, that for all the ages these woods and
lakelet had existed this was the first time they had echoed back our
Scottish melodies. When Alice started Ye banks and braes o’ bonny
Doon, we helped in the first verse, but as the scenes we had left
rose before our minds voices quavered, until all became silent,
tears flowed, and Mrs Auld was sobbing. 'This wont do,’ cried the
master, ‘we have come here as to a land of promise and there must be
no looking backward. We go forward. Alice, start the second
paraphrase and then to bed.’
I have seen many a fine Sabbath morning but none to me like that one
which was our first in the bush. The serenity of air and sky, the
solemnity of the woods, the stillness sweetened by the song of
birds, struck even the children, who were quieter than usual. After
breakfast and things were tidied up we had worship. The master read
selections from the closing chapters of Hebrews, and his prayer was
one of thankfulness to the Hand that had preserved us on our journey
and brought us to a quiet resting-place. Mrs Auld heard the children
their questions and had a lively time in scolding and coaxing them
by turns to never mind the squirrels but attend to what she was
saying.
The dinner things had been cleared away when a visitor came out of
the woods. He had a red, flabby face, framed in a thick whisker
turning grey. The chief feature of his dress was a long surtout,
that had been part of a gentleman’s dress-suit in its day and a
shabby tile hat. Addressing the master with deliberate ceremony, he
told how he had heard of new-comers and felt it his duty to welcome
them and tender his services. He had been four years in Canada and
his experience would be of high value in directing them what to do.
Growing voluble he pointed out what he considered were the mistakes
we had already made, ending with a plump proposal that, for his
board and a certain money consideration, he would take the direction
of the settlement and guarantee its immediate prosperity He paused
and asked for a drink. Mrs Auld handed him a dipper. Smelling it, he
said experience had taught him the prudence of never drinking lake
water without its being qualified by a few spoonfuls of whisky. ‘If
you will be so kind,’ he said to Mrs Auld, ‘as to bring your
greybeard, I shall have pleasure in giving a toast to your new
settlement.’ ‘Whisky! cried Mrs Auld, ‘there’s no a drop to be found
here.’ Turning to the master he said, ‘This will never do; you will
need bees to raise the shanties, to chop, and to fallow, and not a
man will come unless there is whisky and plenty to eat. A keg of
Toronto’s best will be to you a paying investment.' The master, who
had remained silent, carefully measuring the stranger, now spoke. ‘I
thank you for your advice, as to your help we do not need it, for,
as you see, we are strong in ourselves.’ The Englishman, for such he
was, grew angry. ‘You unmannerly Scot, you will have cause to regret
scorning my services. I never had such a reception, for in the
poorest shanty they greet you with a cup of welcome.’ So saying he
disappeared. In telling Jabez of him next day, he said the master
had done well to come out squarely. Bees had grown to be a nuisance
and a loss. When they heard of one, drinkers would travel ten miles
to attend and others came just for the sport of the day. The settler
would run in debt to lay in a stock of food and whisky. Out of the
crowd that would come several would not do a hand’s turn, but drink
and eat; part would work during the forenoon and then, after dinner,
join in the talk and drinking; while the remainder would put in a
faithful day’s labor. It often happened that bees ended in quarrels,
sometimes in fights. A settler, Jabez said, would do better to use
the cost of drink and food in hiring labor.
In the afternoon the women began writing letters to Scotland, using
the tops of chests to rest the paper on. The sheets were crossed and
recrossed, for postage was high, fifty cents the half ounce. Allan
and I walked into the bush to see what it was like. The trees were
all large and well set apart with little underbrush. Fallen trees
and decaying logs abounded. Whether it was jumping or going round
these that caused us to lose our way I cannot say, but after a long
walk we failed to sight the pond. We made a fresh start and tried
another direction without success. ‘We are lost, for sure,’
exclaimed Allan. Putting his hands to his mouth he let out a yell
that startled the crows from a tree-top. We listened, there was no
answering sound. Then he whistled long and sharp. Again no answer.
Jabez had pointed out to me that the north could always be known by
more moss growing on that side of trees, and I decided we had been
travelling in that direction. If we could have got a glimpse of the
sun we would have known for sure the points of the compass, but the
foliage of the tree-tops prevented a ray getting through. We walked
smartly, as we thought southwards, when Allan again yelled with all
his might. Strange to say, an hillo came from the woods on our left
and quite close to us. We hurried in the direction of the sound and
came out on a small clearance with a shanty in the middle. A
well-made young fellow stood at the door. ‘Lost your bearings, eh?’
he asked. ‘Yes,’ answered Alian, ‘and glad you heard my yell.’ He
led us into the shanty; the table was spread for supper and a man
and woman were seated ready to begin ‘These two fellows are
Scotties, new-come out, and got wandered' was our introduction.
Responding to a hearty invitation, seats were found and we helped to
dispose of the dried venison and bread that was on the board. ‘Did
you ever taste coffee like that?’ asked the woman as Allan passed in
his tin for a second supply. ‘That is bush-coffee and better than
the store stuff. It is made from dandelion roots and I will tell
your folk how to make it.’ They were Americans and had led a
wandering life, for the father was a trapper. Game becoming scarce
from growing settlement on the American side he had crossed into
Canada and had spent the last two winters round lake Simcoe. ‘There
is no hunting after February’ he said, ‘for every critter then
begins nursing and the fur is not worth paying for, so we came south
and took this shanty, setting to work to make axhelves and shingles,
there being ready sale in Toronto. We move back to the lakes in the
Fall.’ I asked him about the shanty. He replied that it was not his
nor did he know whose it was ‘Like enough some poor emigrant drew
the lot and after breaking his back with hard work in making a
clearance, found he could not pay the price and just lit out. You
will find deserted shanties everywhere in the bush left by families
who lost heart.’ He showed much interest in our coming and we had
difficulty in getting him to recognize our location. It was not
until I mentioned the pond that he recognized the spot. 'Why, you
aint much over a mile to go.’ When we were about to start the whole
family got ready to go with us. ‘The sun won’t set for an hour yet,
and there is good moonlight,’ said Simmins, for that he told us was
his name. ‘Did you never get lost?’ I asked. ‘That is a foolish
question to ask of any body born in the woods for they never lose
their sense of direction.’ He advised me to carry a compass and take
its bearings in going and follow them in returning. Suddenly Mrs
Simmins burst into song. It was a hymn, sung in a style I never
heard before, but have since at many a camp meeting. Her voice was
strong, rising to a shriek at high notes. The husband and son joined
in, enjoying it as much as she did. In telling me of the alarm felt
at our not returning to supper, Alice said they sat fearing
something had befallen us, and that, if the night set in, we might
be lost and never be found alive, when suddenly they heard from the
depths of the woods the words
Then let our songs
resound
And every heart be love;
We’re marching through Emmanuel’s ground
To fairer worlds above.
Distance mellowed
the harshness of the voices and the words sounded like a message
from heaven. Their distress was that neither Allan’s voice nor my
own was distinguishable. Glad they were when we emerged from the
trees and joined them round the fire that had been made to blaze as
a guide to us. Our visitors made themselves at home at once. 'Why do
you call your son Sal?’ asked the mistress, ‘that is a girl’s name.’
The reply was, ‘His Sunday name is Salvation Simmins; we call him
Sal for short.’ ‘And your husband addresses you as Jedu; what name
is that?’ ‘I was a girl of sixteen before I was baptised, and the
preacher gave me the name Jedutlian, because I was the chief
musician.’ ‘Jeduthan was a man, the friend of David.’ ‘Bible don’t
say he was a man, and for years and years I was the chief musician
at the camp meetings. Guess it was the same in David’s time as in
ours—the women did the heft of the singing?’ Then she began singing,
husband and son helping. ‘Why don’t you all sing?’ she asked, ‘aint
you got religion yet? My, if you heard Elder Colver you would be on
your knees and get converted right away.’ The mistress said they did
not know the words of the hymns she sang, when she became curious to
hear us. Alice struck up Come, let us to the Lord our God, and we
all joined. ‘Whew!’ exclaimed Mrs Simmins, very pretty, but that
aint the stuff to bring sinners to the penitent-bench—you have to be
loud and strong. Ever hear a negro hymn? No, well we will give you
one, 'Whip the ole devil round the stump.’ As they sang they acted
the words. We parted with mutual good wishes, the mistress
remarking, after they left, that God spoke in divers ways and their
presentation of His truths, though rude and wild to us, doubtless
suited the frontier population among whom they had lived and did
good. ‘The ax before the plow, the ox-drag before the smoothing
harrow,’ added the master.
On Jabez appearing next morning he had six bags of potatoes on the
ox-sled, which were for seed as well as eating, and said he had left
a load of pine-boards to be hauled through the bush to floor the
shanties. They now had to decide what kind of shanty they wanted.
The cheapest, he told us, for all, men, women, and children, had
gathered to hear about the building,—was a house twelve feet by
twelve, with basswood staves for flooring or the bare soil, an
opening that served both as door and window, with a blanket to keep
out the cold, basswood scoops or elm bark for the roof, in which a
hole was left to let out the smoke. There were many such shanties,
but living in them was misery. From that sort they varied in size
and finish, all depending on the settler’s means. With $25 a good
deal could be done. Size and finish were agreed on, it being
understood the master, who had most money, would have a larger
house. This being decided. Mr Brodie set to work to dig his cellar
and I was sent to Simmins to see if he could supply shingles for the
three shanties and to ask Sal if he would hire until they were
finished. I took the compass and found their clearance without
trouble. In returning Sal, who carried his axe, blazed the trees, so
that it would be easy to know the way. The following morning his
mother accompanied Sal. She came to show how they made bread in the
bush, and had brought a dishful of bran-risings. Explaining what
yeast was and how to treat it, she set a panful of dough. When the
mass had risen, she kneaded it, and moulded it into loaves. The
bake-kettle having been warmed, the loaves were placed in it, and
when they had risen enough, she put the cover on, and planted the
kettle in a bed of glowing embers. The bread was sweet and a welcome
change to the cakes made on the griddle or frying-pan. We had more
than bread that day. Mrs Simmins pointed out plants, like lambs
quarter and dandelion, whose leaves made greens that added relish to
our unvarying diet of pork. How much more she taught I do not know,
but her visit was a revelation to our women-folk. Grannie was
delighted with her singing because she could hear it. |
