Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush (30 page)

“Jeanie was a distant connexion o’ my aunt’s; an’ she found us out that night, on her return to the village, an’ tould us a’ her grief. My aunt was a kind, guid woman, an’ was indignant at the treatment she had received, an’ loved and cherished her as if she had been her ain bairn. For two whole weeks she kept her bed, an’ was sae ill, that the doctor despaired o’ her life; and when she did come amang us agen, the rose had faded aff her cheek, an’ the light frae her sweet blue e’e, an’ she spak’ in a low, subdued voice; but she never accused him o’ being the cause o’ her grief. One day she called me aside and said –

“‘Jamie, you ken’d how I lo’ed an’ trusted him, an’ obeyed his ain wish in comin’ out to this wearisome country to be his wife. But ‘tis a’ owre now.’ An’ she passed her sma’ hands tightly owre her breast, to keep doon the swellin’ o’ her heart. ‘Jamie, I ken that this is a’ for the best; I lo’ed him too weel, – mair than ony creature sud lo’e a perishin’ thing o’ earth. But I thought that he wud be sae glad an’ sae proud to see his ain Jeanie sae sune. But, oh! – ah, weel; I maun na think o’ that. What I wud jest say is this’ – and she tuk a sma’ packet frae her
breast, while the saut tears streamed doon her pale cheeks –’he sent me forty dollars to bring me owre the sea to him. God bless him for that! I ken he worked hard to earn it, for he lo’ed me then. I was na idle during his absence; I had saved enough to bury my dear auld grandfather, an’ to pay my expenses out; an’ I thought, like the guid servant in the parable, I wud return Willie his ain wi’ interest, an’ I hoped to see him smile at my diligence, an’ ca’ me his dear, bonnie lassie. Jamie, I canna keep his siller; it lies like a weight o’ lead on my heart. Tak’ it back to him, an’ tell him frae me, that I forgi’e him a’ his cruel deceit, an’ pray God to grant him prosperity, an’ restore to him that peace o’ mind o’ which he has robbed me for ever.’

“I did as she bade me. Willie Robertson looked stupified when I delivered her message. The only remark he made when I gied him back the siller was, ‘I maun be gratefu,’ man, that she did na curse me.’ The wife cam’ in, an’ he hid awa’ the packet and slunk aff. The man looked degraded in his ain sight, an’ sae wretched, that I pitied him frae my heart.

“When I cam’ home, Jeanie met me at the yet. ‘Tell me,’ she said, in a dowie, anxious voice, –’tell me, cousin Jamie, what passed atween ye.’ Had Willie nae word for me?’

“‘Naething, Jeanie. The man is lost to himsel’ – to a’ who ance wished him weel. He is na worth a decent body’s thought.’

“She sighed sairly; an’ I saw that her heart craved after some word or token frae him. She said nae mair; but pale an’ sorrowfu,’ the verra ghaist o’ her former sel,’ went back into the house.

“Frae that hour she never breathed his name to ony o’ us; but we all ken’d that it was her lo’e for him that was wearin’ out her life. The grief that has nae voice, like the canker-worm, lies ne’est the heart. Puir Jean, she held out durin’ the
simmer, but when the fa’ cam’, she jest withered awa,’ like a flower nipped by the early frost; an’ this day we laid her in the earth.

“After the funeral was owre, an’ the mourners a’ gane, I stood beside her grave, thinking owre the days o’ my boyhood, when she an’ I were happy weans, an’ used to pu’ the gowans together, on the heathery hills o’ dear auld Scotland. An’ I tried in vain to understan’ the mysterious providence o’ God that had stricken her, who seem sae guid an’ pure, an spared the like o’ me, who was mair deservin’ o’ his wrath, when I heard a deep groan, an’ I saw Willie Robertson standin’ near me, beside the grave.

“‘You may as weel spare your grief noo,’ said I, for I felt hard towards him, ‘an’ rejoice that the weary is at rest.’

“‘It was I killed her,’ said he; ‘an’ the thought will haunt me to my last day. Did she remember me on her death-bed?’

“ ‘Her thoughts were only ken’d by Him, Willie, wha reads the secrets of a’ hearts. Her end was peace; and her Saviour’s blessed name was the last sound on her lips. If ever woman died o’ a broken heart, there she lies.’

“‘Ah, Jeanie!’ he cried, ‘my ain darlin’ Jeanie! my blessed lammie! I was na worthy o’ yer luve. My heart, too, is breakin.’ To bring ye back ance mair, I would gladly lay me doon an’ dee.’

“An’ he flung himsel’ upon the fresh piled sods, an’ greeted like a child.

“When he grew more calm, we had a long conversation about the past; an’ truly I think that the man was na in his right senses, when he married yon wife. At ony rate, he is nae lang for this world; he has fretted the flesh aff his banes, an’ afore mony months are owre, his heid wullie as low as puir Jeanie Burns.”

T
here was a poor woman on board the steamer, who was like myself in search of health, and was going to the West to see her friends, and to get rid of (if possible) a hollow, consumptive cough. She looked to me in the last stage of pulmonary consumption; but she seemed to hope everything from the change of air.

She had been for many years a resident in the woods, and had suffered great hardships; but the greatest sorrow she ever knew, she said, and what had pulled her down the most, was the loss of a fine boy, who had strayed away after her through
the bush, when she went to nurse a sick neighbour; and though every search had been made for the child, he had never been found. “It is a many years ago,” she said, “and he would be a fine young man now, if he were alive.” And she sighed deeply, and still seemed to cling to the idea that he might possibly be living, with a sort of forlorn hope, that to me seemed more melancholy than the certainty of his death.

This brought to my recollection many tales that I had been told, while living in the bush, of persons who had perished in this miserable manner. Some of these tales may chance to interest my readers.

I was busy sewing one day for my little girl, when we lived in the township of Hamilton, when Mrs. H—, a woman whose husband farmed our farm on shares, came running in quite out of breath, and cried out

“Mrs. M—, you have heard the good news? – One of the lost children is found!”

I shook my head, and looked inquiringly.

“What! did not you hear about it? Why, one of Clark’s little fellows, who were lost last Wednesday in the woods, has been found.”

“I am glad of it. But how were they lost?”

“Oh, ‘tis a thing of very common occurrence here. New settlers, who are ignorant of the danger of going astray in the forest, are always having their children lost. I take good care never to let my boys go alone to the bush. But people are so careless in this respect, that I wonder it does not more frequently happen.

“These little chaps are the sons of a poor emigrant who came out this summer, and took up a lot of wild land just at the back of us, towards the plains. Clark is busy logging up his fallow for fall wheat, on which his family must depend for bread
during the ensuing year; and he is so anxious to get it ready in time, that he will not allow himself an hour at noon to go home to get his dinner, which his wife generally sends in a basket to the woods by his eldest daughter, a girl of fourteen.

“Last Wednesday, the girl had been sent an errand by her mother, who thought that, in her absence, she might venture to trust the two boys to take the dinner to their father. The boys, who are from five to seven years old, and very smart and knowing for their age, promised to mind all her directions, and went off quite proud of the task, carrying the little basket between them.

“How they came to ramble off into the woods, the younger child, who has been just found, is too much stupified to tell, and perhaps he is too young to remember.

“At night Clark returned from his work, and scolded his wife for not sending his dinner as usual; but the poor woman, (who all day had quieted her fears with the belief that the children had stayed with their father,) instead of paying any regard to his angry words, demanded, in a tone of agony, what had become of her children?

“Tired and hungry as Clark was, he instantly comprehended the danger to which his boys were exposed, and started off in pursuit of them. The shrieks of the distracted woman soon called the neighbours together, who instantly joined in the search. It was not until this afternoon that any trace could be discovered of the lost children, when Brian, the hunter, found the youngest boy, Johnnie, lying fast asleep upon the trunk of a fallen tree, fifteen miles back in the bush.”

“And the brother?”

“Will never, I fear, be heard of again. They have searched for him in all directions, and have not discovered him. The story little Johnnie tells is to this effect. During the first two
days of their absence, the food they had brought in the basket for their father’s dinner sustained life; but to-day, it seems that little Johnnie grew very hungry, and cried continually for bread. William, the eldest boy, promised him bread if he would try and walk farther; but his feet were bleeding and sore, and he could not walk another step. For some time the other little fellow carried him upon his back; but growing tired himself, he bade Johnnie sit down upon a fallen log, (the log on which he was found,) and not stir from the place until he came back. He told the child that he would run on until he found a house, and would return as soon as he could, and bring him something to eat. He then wiped his eyes, and told him not to cry, and not to be scared, for God would take care of him till he came back, and he kissed him several times, and ran away.

“This is all the little fellow knows about his brother; and it is very probable that the generous-hearted boy has been eaten by the wolves that are very plenty in that part of the forest where the child was found. The Indians traced him for more than a mile along the banks of the creek, when they lost his trail altogether. If he had fallen into the water, it is so shallow, that they could scarcely have failed in discovering the body; but they think that he has been dragged into some hole in the bank among the tangled cedars, and devoured.

“Since I have been in the country,” continued Mrs. H—, “I have known many cases of children, and even of grown persons, being lost in the woods, who were never heard of again. It is a frightful calamity to happen to any one; for should they escape from the claws of wild animals, these dense forests contain nothing on which life can be supported for any length of time. The very boughs of the trees are placed so far from the ground, that no child could reach or climb to them; and there is so little brush and small bushes
among these giant trees, that no sort of fruit can be obtained, on which they might subsist while it remained in season. It is only in clearings, or where the fire has run through the forest, that strawberries or raspberries are to be found; and at this season of the year, and in the winter, a strong man could not exist many days in the wilderness – let alone a child.

“Parents cannot be too careful in guarding their young folks against rambling alone in the bush. Persons, when once they get off the beaten track, get frightened and bewildered, and lose all presence of mind; and instead of remaining where they are when they first discover their misfortune – which is the only chance they have of being found – they plunge desperately on, running hither and thither, in the hope of getting out, while they only involve themselves more deeply among the mazes of the interminable forest.

“Some winters ago, the daughter of a settler in the remote township of Dummer (where my husband took up his grant of wild land, and in which we lived for two years) went with her father to the mill, which was four miles from their log-shanty, and the road lay entirely through the bush. For awhile the girl, who was about twelve years of age, kept up with her father, who walked briskly a-head with his bag of corn on his back; for as their path lay through a tangled swamp, he was anxious to get home before night. After some time, Sarah grew tired with stepping up and down over the fallen logs that strewed their path, and lagged a long way behind. The man felt not the least apprehensive when he lost sight of her, expecting that she would soon come up with him again. Once or twice he stopped and shouted, and she answered, ‘Coming, father!’ and he did not turn to look after her again. He reached the mill, saw the grist ground, resumed his burden, and took the road home, expecting to meet Sarah by the way. He trode the long path alone; but
still he thought that the girl, tired with her walk in the woods, had turned back, and he should find her safe at home.

“You may imagine, Mrs. M—, his consternation, and that of the family, when they found that the girl was lost.

“It was now dark, and all search for her was given up for that night as hopeless. By day-break the next morning the whole settlement, which was then confined to a few lonely log tenements, inhabited solely by Cornish miners, were roused from their sleep to assist in the search.

“The men turned out with guns and horns, and divided into parties, that started in different directions. Those who first discovered Sarah were to fire their guns, which was to be the signal to guide the rest to the spot. It was not long before they found the object of their search, seated under a tree about half a mile from the path she had lost on the preceding day.